Authors: M.A. MacAfee
Me and My Manny (13 page)
The next morning, another ruckus outside my apartment door, I looked through the peephole and saw trash scattered down the hallway. Right away, the sight told me I was viewing another example of Spike’s handiwork.
“I’ve had it with that rotten dog,” I said on my way into the kitchen. Harry was at the counter, plugging in the electric coffee pot. “He’s torn up another garbage bag some tenant put out in the hall and must have forgotten to dump down the trash chute.”
“So complain to the Pritchards. They might get rid of him,” Harry said.
“I can’t do that. They paid a fortune for the animal. Anyway, no one else would have him. He’d have to be put down. I couldn’t live with myself, let alone next to the Pritchards.”
“We can move,” Harry said.
I liked my apartment; I liked the entire building and its many amenities. More so, my expenses at Whitehall were predictable and there were too many costs associated with the process of moving.
“Why should we have to move and sub-let when Jason’s the one causing the problem?”
Harry snorted. “A guy afraid to leave the building will not be going anywhere soon.”
“He doesn’t have to leave. Management could find him another apartment.”
“If the Smiths even hint at the idea, Jason would suffer a coronary and sue their asses off. Remember how he panicked that time Ruthie was gone and Spike got out?”
I recalled the incident that happened last year before Harry got shipped out. Jason was about to go down to the game room, reserved that day for his appointment with Dr. Britonia, his psychiatrist. He had just stepped into the hallway when Spike zoomed past him and down the fire escape. Since Ruthie was off doing errands, Jason banged on our door, looking for help. It took Harry and the two gay guys on the third floor to get Spike leashed and muzzled in the alley.
“You could talk to Jason’s doctor in confidence,” Harry said. “Seems he’d be the best to advise you.”
I elevated my head. “Great idea. I’ll find out when his next house call is, and I’ll ambush him after their session.”
“Too obvious,” Harry said. “Jason will find out. Better to make an appointment yourself.”
“Me? How about you?”
“You make a better case. It’d be more authentic. Besides, you’re here alone most of the time, and it’s you the dog upsets.”
I considered his suggestion and groaned. “I can’t do it.”
Harry threw his hands upward. “We can’t leave here and we can’t stay here, either.”
“Is this is a ruse to get me to see a shrink?” I asked suspiciously.
“Come on, we’re settled here. This guy won’t laugh at you. He hears strange stuff all the time.”
“Harry, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I know, honey, you just have a few quirks.”
“I’ll tell you what’s quirky. Some guy at a party who imitates a wooden doll and pretends he’s lost his soul.”
“My soul wasn’t lost. It was sold without my consent.”
“It’s your soul,” I said, likewise getting louder. “I can’t sell it. You have to do that yourself. So I don’t see what you’re all worked up about.”
Harry paused, a ponderous expression on his face. “We’re soul mates, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “And we live in a community property state where married couples share fifty-fifty, right?”
Again I nodded.
“So you see, Judy, you can, too, sell my soul.”
I frowned, wondering how I get into these debates.
“Logically,” Harry continued, “it figures that the only way for me to get my soul back would be to return Wolf to Mr. Gippo for a refund.”
“Are you saying you actually went to see old man Gippo to buy back your soul?” I slapped my forehead. “And you call me loopy.”
“I didn’t go for that reason. I was on the waterfront anyway. That’s where I’m stationed, remember? I went there to see if I could get the manny’s eyes fixed. It’s my fault they’re broken.”
“And while at it, you just thought you’d ask if you might work a trade.”
“Well, that’s not the all of it. Because, guess what? Old man Gippo’s shop wasn’t there. It never existed.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“I asked around, and everybody pointed me in the direction of a place where they make wooden toys by hand. The toy makers have been around that area of Pike Place for years, but they never heard of a woodcarver named Gippo.”
“Maybe he closed up shop. Maybe he retired. He was old, maybe he died.” The fog was thick the day I walked into Gippo’s store. It had swirled around me and buried the world in a fuzzy gray haze, but not so dense that I couldn’t see.
“Or maybe you just made up Gippo because you were too embarrassed to admit that you got Wolf from the battered suitcase of some sidewalk vender.”
I rolled my eyes.
He’s back to twilight Willy and his trunk again.
“It’s ridiculous to imbue junk from a street peddler with special qualities,” Harry elaborated with conviction, “so you go on to concoct some lame fairytale to justify your fascination with the thing. Sometimes, when you tell a joke, you even look right past me toward Wolf as if to catch him laughing. It’s irrational.”
This entire discussion seemed irrational to me, still I tried to see it from Harry’s perspective and maintain some semblance of sanity. A navy man duty bound to uphold the status quo, Harry abhorred radical changes.
“I don’t see why I should see a shrink when you’re the one who needs his head examined,” I told him. “Should I again remind you of the party last week, your little performance, inviting an audience in to watch you morph, with your flattened-down hair and vintage sailor suit. Hey, why don’t
you
see Jason’s shrink, tell him the story you just told me?”
Harry waved his hand at Wolf. “If I did that, you can bet I’d tell the whole story. Not just my part, but yours too. Including your notions about that spindle-shanked dingus and your nonexistent woodcarver.”
On the surface, this argument seemed utterly inane. We acted like two spoiled kids fighting over a toy. Yet underneath there lurked a more serious issue, a contest of wills.
“I guess to some extent we’re both wrong,” I conceded. “Neither of us is willing to compromise.”
I went on to ask him to humor me for the time being. The manny was important to me. I never had much guidance growing up. My mother was distant; my father was uninvolved; both were absent in different ways. The manny filled a need during the long periods I spent alone and he toured.
Doing my wistful best, I said, “The manny never gets up and sails away.”
With a warm embrace, Harry likewise apologized. He did however agree that a move would deplete our savings.
“The cost of visiting Jason’s doctor would be a lot less than anything else we’ve come up with,” he said.
We exchanged kisses, and in a weak moment, I agreed to call Dr. Britonia for the sole purpose of discussing how Harry and I might deal with a mentally disturbed neighbor to avoid the hassle of a pricey move. Yep, the manipulation had worked, all right, in Harry’s favor.
The following day, I phoned Britonia’s office and spoke to the receptionist. I had hoped to hear an excuse for the doctor
not
to see me: he took only referrals or he was too busy. Instead, she said he’d be delighted to meet for a brief consultation. I thanked her and jotted down the Kirkland address, in the Evergreen Hospital complex, only a thirty-minute drive away.
“One other thing,” the receptionist cautioned after hearing the reason for the appointment, “the doctor can’t break client-doctor confidentiality if you mean to talk more about a client other than yourself.”
Two days later, around two in the afternoon, I sat in a chair across from Dr. Britonia’s desk.
After telling him something about myself, I explained the reason for my visit: the manner in which one of his patients, a close neighbor of mine, deals with his phobia is interfering with my life.
Dr. Britonia informed me that he did not discuss the diagnosis or treatment of his clients with anyone other than certain family members. He then clarified a few definitions and symptoms. A phobia is a fear thought to be produced by an intimidating situation that is then transferred to other similar situations, with the original being repressed or forgotten.
Agoraphobia, the fear of open or public places, is a particularly crippling illness, he explained. Panic attacks, or the sudden onset of intense apprehension, are common with agoraphobia. During an attack, a sufferer generally experiences a rapid heart rate, chest pains, and shortness of breath.
“It often feels like an impending heart attack. Sweating, trembling, even fainting is not unusual. It’s possible that you’ve observed,” Britonia said, leaning closer to me, “that a person with this disorder always tries to be in the company of a companion who tolerates his behavior.”
“Which is why I haven’t complained to either of the Pritchards’ about their vicious Rottweiler,” I told him. “We get along fairly well, and if I said anything to them, or worse, to management, everybody might end up enemies.”
“I knew Mr. Pritchard had a watchdog, but I had no idea it was vicious,” the doctor said.
“His wife takes care of it, but she’s barely able to. Spike’s too strong. He’s destructive and out-of-control.” I moved to the edge of my seat. “I don’t mean to invade Jason’s privacy and disrespect doctor-patient confidentiality, but both Jason and Spike have gotten worse since Ruthie dated Mr. Kin, he’s the manikin Spike’s always after.”
“Interesting,” the doctor noted, arching his eyebrows.
“It’s rumored that Ruthie’s hired a hit man because she’s so stressed out from putting up with Jason. I mean, she would have gone off the deep end long ago, if it weren’t for the manny. While she has no intention of snuffing out Jason, the idea’s made him so jumpy, I’m worried that sometime during one of his panic attacks, he might sic his dog on an innocent bystander.”
“Such as Mr. Kin, your manikin.”
“Correct. Wolf isn’t your straight-up cookie-cutter manikin. He’s almost life sized and carved out of wood. And has articulated joints that allow him to skate and dance and jog, but he doesn’t do those things on his own, like…you know, Willy, the dummy from the
Twilight Zone
.”
“Yet he’ll improve once his reassignment is complete,” the doctor said.
Baffled, I gazed at Britonia. Though I had spoken about things in general when I first came in, I didn’t recall mentioning anything about Harry’s transition—or his reassignment, to use the doctor’s psychiatric word. But then I didn’t have to, owing to the gossip Britonia was likely privy to during his visits to Whitehall, Gasbag Central.
“Harry, my husband, says things like that. Only joking, I don’t think he’s serious.”
The doctor offered a sly grin. “A wooden replica of one’s self might make some people uncomfortable.”
“Harry considers it a tribute. The manny’s like a sculpture meant to memorialize him.”
“I see. He considers it a tribute, yet he feels threatened by it.”
“Well, it’s the silliest thing, but my husband seems to think that I have somehow made a deal with the Devil to transfer his physical being to the manny. And the reverse too.” I laughed. “Not only do I have no idea where to find a lawyer to work a satanic contract, I think it’s impossible for me to swap somebody else’s soul to get rich.”
Britonia stroked his chin. “How did you acquire Mr. Kin, if I’m not being too inquisitive?”
“The place is closed down. It went out of business.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“The manny’s glass eyes were damaged in a minor shakeup. So to make up for slapping him around, Harry tried to get them fixed, but the woodcarver’s shop was no longer there. Harry wouldn’t have lied about something that could so easily be checked.”
The doctor wrote on a sheet of paper in a folder opened on his desk. “So, you’re here for what reason?”
“Because I can’t afford to move from Whitehall, but I can’t stay put, either.”
“Because the Pritchards’ dog wants to kill your manikin.”
“No, the dog can’t
kill
him. But he can chew him up the same as he did to Miss Kitty so he could leave her paw at my door as a warning for me to back off.”
Britonia scrawled another note on the paper. The word
certifiable
, I imagined. As he lowered the pen and looked up, I feigned a pleasant smile. Yes, I answered when he asked if I had a good diet and got enough rest. No, I answered when he asked if I took drugs or drank to excess.
Britonia hinted that I consider therapy for myself. To top it off, he handed me the card of someone whom he preferred I consult.
“Seeing both you and Jason presents a conflict of interest,” he said in concluding our meeting.
I’m really awful at the details involved in changing residences. Last time we moved from military housing to our present address was to put me closer to my job. To save money, we rented a truck, packed the boxes ourselves, and got a fellow sailor to give us a hand. To simplify the process, Harry insisted that I label the boxes so that they could be put in the proper locations. I marked most of the boxes “miscellaneous.” The assistant mover was happy about the convenience of leaving most boxes in one room, but Harry was stymied.
Memory of the chaos that moving had caused depressed me on my return to the apartment after seeing Britonia. I had been preparing dinner, microwaving two defrosted corndogs, when Harry received a phone call from his commanding officer at the naval base.
“Sorry, hon, gotta fill in for a shipmate,” he said as he gulped down his meal. “The shift starts tonight and ends late tomorrow afternoon.” He gestured toward the electric coffee pot, percolating away. “I’ll fix myself a thermos before heading out.”
I gave him a peck on the cheek and started for the shower. But as I entered the bathroom, I heard him cry out from the kitchen.
“Oow, oow, oow, damn it.”
“What is it? What happened?” I asked, knotting my bathrobe while trotting back into the kitchen.
He was hovering over the manny, on the floor like a scarecrow blown from its post. “I tried to move him away from the counter, and he jabbed me a good one.” Harry held out his left hand. A splinter that appeared to be from a wooden corndog stick was lodged in his palm.
I moved back toward the bathroom where I kept the first-aid kit. “I’ll get the tweezers.”
“Pliers might work better,” Harry moaned at the kitchen sink.
Though I returned right away, the wound already looked inflamed. “I hope it doesn’t get infected.” I sprayed his palm with antiseptic, caught the edge of the splinter with tweezers, and yanked it free. Blood followed.
Sniveling, Harry gave his hand a second dose of antiseptic and dried the wound with a paper towel. “That thing was painful as a poison dart,” he said, tossing the wadded paper in the trash. He then asked, “How’d the meeting with Britonia go?”
“It was a disaster.” I thought back to my appointment in the posh office. Sharing my concerns with a professional made me feel less relieved than I expected. On the contrary, I felt ashamed for making a fool of myself, snitching on my neighbors, and raving about my manny. Then, too, Britonia had unnerved me. I worried that if I hung around him or any shrink for any length of time, I’d end up interpreting vagaries, confronting whimsies, and tripping out on mind-altering meds.
“Talk about your delusions of persecution. I sounded like a paranoid, like everyone in the damned universe was after me. Their dogs included. That way your ‘reassignment’ could continue unimpeded.”
Harry smirked. “I take it your reputation preceded you.”
“As if you hadn’t assumed it might.”
“How was I supposed to know Jason blabbed to his shrink about the neighbors?”
“Blabbed? The doctor had an entire dossier on me. Probably one on you, too.” I pressed my ear to the kitchen wall. It wasn’t very thick, certainly not enough to mute some of the louder conversations between Harry and me.
“Did he suggest how you might get the Pritchards’ to move?” Harry asked in a softer voice.
I snorted. “I think Britonia was so convinced I was out of my mind that I’m lucky he didn’t come up with some legal excuse to have me evicted. And institutionalized while at it.”
Harry chuckled with bald-faced delight. “At least he gave you an objective look at yourself.”
I gazed at him, confident he knew something like this would happen. He failed at talking me into getting rid of Wolf so he resorted to proving that my attachment to him signifies a serious mental problem.
“Britonia recommend anything?”
“Only that I consider seeing a colleague.” I pulled the tabs off a Band Aid and stuck it on Harry’s splinter-free palm. “There you go, good as new.”
While I put away the first-aid kit, Harry prepared his thermos. When finished, he stepped into the alcove and returned, grinning with one hand behind him.
“By the way, I knew seeing a shrink would be hard on you. So I got you a gift.” He carefully brought the hidden hand forward. Cupped in his palm was a fishbowl with a brilliant goldfish swimming inside.
“How cute. My first pet…”
I accepted the glass bowl and carried it into the living room where I set it on the coffee table.
Harry followed, saying, “The guy at the fish place called her Cleo.”
Cleo!
“How likely is that?”
He shook a small container of fish food. “You feed her only this. No table scraps, okay?”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” I said, snapping off a crisp salute.
Since Harry was in a hurry, I thanked him with a quick kiss, handed him the thermos, and told him goodnight.
In the quiet that comes with nightfall, I went to Wolf still on the floor where he’d fallen. I dragged him into the living room, plunked him down on the sofa, and examined his limbs. Finding them polished smooth and sliver free, I concluded that Harry’s run in with the splinter from the corndog stick must have been an accident.
“Look who’s here.” I raised Cleo in her bowl for Wolf’s inspection. The fishbowl again on the coffee table, I stared at Wolf’s face and whispered, “You couldn’t have stabbed Harry’s hand on purpose. Could you?”