Over and over, he drilled it with the kids, and by the time class was done, his stomach had lost that acid coating. The anxiety of the night before gone on a swell of…What? Accomplishment, maybe?
Which was one hell of a thing.
The parents didn’t give him the friendliest looks, of course, when they came to get their children, but their cautious, mistrustful glares brought home a fact that had, up until that very moment, escaped him—the kids hadn’t been afraid of him. They were treating him the way they’d treated Steve. Or, maybe not quite exactly, because Steve was an old guy and someone they were used to. With Clay, the kids had been curious, maybe a little bit awed, which was flattering and refreshing and entirely new.
When he left the gym that afternoon, Becky’s voice calling out a last excited good-bye behind him, Clay felt tired but almost normal.
* * *
George cut short her usual Saturday visit to the in-laws, breathing a sigh of relief as she rushed to get out, with a promise to return the next week. She’d mentioned her upcoming doctor’s appointment—the fertilization she’d be undergoing Wednesday evening—and now, as she drove to Cookie Lloyd’s place, she regretted the urge that had led her to bring it up. She’d wanted to share something with Bonnie, felt compelled to give her mother-in-law something to look forward to.
During the drive to Ms. Lloyd’s place, she ignored her nagging conscience, pondering instead what kind of diagnosis she might be facing. She knew from Uma that Ms. Lloyd was an agoraphobe. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about sun damage.
She pulled up to see Uma awaiting her on the woman’s porch steps—a porch entirely devoid of furniture.
After a quick hug, Uma turned and knocked, with a muttered, “Brace yourself.”
The door swung open.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking—come inside,” Cookie Lloyd snapped at George and Uma, who gave George a wry glance before leading the way in.
“As promised, Cookie, I bring you…a doctor.”
The short woman squinted at George, giving her the urge to back up a step or two. Maybe walk right back out the front door and down the porch steps.
“You going to check me or just stare?”
George forced a brief professional smile. “First of all, Ms. Lloyd, would you like Uma here, or do you want her to go?”
“Oh, I’ll go. Call me if you nee—”
“You stay right here, young lady. I want you in the room. Lettin’ strangers in and then takin’ off to your man. My goodness, the fickle youth of today. Trusted confidante one moment, near stranger the next! What is this world coming to?”
“Fine. I’ll stay.” Uma moved into the living room—a claustrophobic den of doilies and dahlias that had George itching to run home and throw away every print she owned. She helped Cookie settle onto the sofa before taking an armchair and leaving George to choose her poison: armchair or sofa beside the somewhat terrifying Cookie Lloyd? George, being a masochist, perhaps, opted for the latter.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on first, Ms. Lloyd?”
“I got an itch, don’t I?”
“Okay. What kind of itch?”
“It’s…it’s just uncomfortable.” The eyes behind the woman’s glasses blinked, slow and strange.
“Where is this itch?”
“It’s…” The eyes flicked to Uma and back to George. She bent toward George in a waft of starchy, floral talc. “It’s on my va-jay-jay.”
“Okay. Okay, we can deal with that. I might not be the right doctor for this, but we can talk through it.”
“It’s since I started takin’ that sheriff to bed. The man. I tell you, he—”
“Whoa. Cookie!” Uma said, standing up with a gasp. “Look, you do not need me here for this. It’s—”
“Why don’t you go, Uma? I’ll stay and talk to Ms. Lloyd. We’ll figure this out. I’ll be over to see you when I’m done here,” she added and waited until her friend left before speaking again.
“Now, tell me exactly where it itches. Is it on your vulva, Ms. Lloyd?”
“No. On my thighs.”
