Now I won't talk any more because I know you want to get back to your writing. Some day you can write my life story, and we'll both make a fortune."
Wearing his orange cap, of which he was getting inordinately fond, Qwilleran drove to Mooseville to mail the letter to Arch. At the post office he sniffed warily but detected only fresh floor wax.
His next stop was the Cannery Mall, where he decided the aroma of smoked fish was not entirely unpleasant after all. At the medical clinic the young doctor was sitting at the reception desk, reading a gourmet magazine. He was right about her green eyes; they sparkled with youth and health and humor.
"Remember me?" he began, doffing his cap. "I'm the patient with the Cemetery Syndrome." "Glad to see you're not as grouchy as you were yesterday." "The shot took effect immediately. Do you get many cases like mine?" "Oh, yes," she said. "Ivy poisoning, second-degree sunburn, infected heel blisters, rabid squirrel bites — all the usual vacation delights." "Any drownings?" "The police emergency squad takes care of those. I hope you're not planning to fall in the lake. It's so cold that anyone who falls overboard goes down once and never comes up.
At least, that's the conventional wisdom in these parts." She closed her magazine. "Won't you sit down?" Qwilleran settled into a chair and smoothed his moustache nervously. "I'd like to ask you a question about that shot you gave me. Could it cause hallucinations?" "Extremely unlikely. Do you have a history of hallucinating?" "No, but I had an unusual experience after the shot, and no one believes I saw what I saw. I'm beginning to doubt my sanity." "You may be the one person in ten million who had an abnormal reaction," the doctor said cheerfully. "Congratulations!" Qwilleran regarded her intently, and she returned his gaze with laughing eyes and fluttering eyelashes.
He said: "Can I sue you for malpractice? Or will you settle for a dinner date?" "Make it a quick lunch, and I can go right now," she said, consulting her watch. "I never refuse lunch with an interesting older man. Do you like pasties?" "They'd be okay if they had flaky pastry, a little sauce, and less turnip." "Then you'll love the Nasty Pasty. Let's go." She threw off the white coat that covered a Mooseville T-shirt.
The restaurant was small and designed for intimacy, with two rows of booths and accents of fishnet, weathered rope, and stuffed seagulls.
Qwilleran said: "I never thought I'd be consulting a doctor who is female and half my age and easy to look at." "Better get used to the idea," she said. "We're in plentiful supply… You're in good shape for your age. Do you exercise a lot?" "Not a great deal," he said, although "not at all" would have been closer to the truth. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I don't know your name." "Melinda Goodwinter." "Related to the attorney?" "Cousin. Pickax is loaded with Goodwinters. My father is a GP there, and I'm going to join his office in the fall." "You probably know Fanny Klingenschoen. I'm borrowing her log cabin for the summer." "Everyone knows Fanny — for better or worse. Maybe I shouldn't say that; she's a remarkable old lady. She says she wants to be my first patient when I start my practice." "Why do you call her remarkable?" "Fanny has a unique way of getting what she wants. You know the old county courthouse?
It's an architectural gem, but they were ready to tear it down until Fanny went to work and saved it — single-handedly." Qwilleran touched his moustache. "Let me ask you something, Melinda. This is beautiful country, and the people are friendly, but I have a gnawing suspicion that something is going on that I don't comprehend. Am I supposed to believe that Moose County is some kind of Utopia?" "We have our problems," she admitted, "but we don't talk about them — to outsiders.
This is not for publication, but there's a tendency up here to resent visitors from Down Below." "They love the tourists' dollars, but they don't like the tourists, is that right?" She nodded. "The summer people are too smooth, too self-important, too aggressive, too condescending, too different. Present company excepted, naturally." "You think we're different? You're the ones who are different," Qwilleran objected.
"Life in the city is predictable. I go out on assignment, eat lunch at the Press Club, hurry back to the paper to write the story, have dinner at a good restaurant, get mugged on the way home… no surprises!" "You jest. I've lived in the city, and country is better." The pasties were a success: flaky, juicy, turnipless, and of comfortable size.
Qwilleran felt comfortable with Melinda, too, and at one point he smoothed his moustache self-consciously and said: "There's something I'd like to confide in you, if you don't mind." "Flattered." "I wouldn't discuss it with anyone else, but since you're a doctor…" "I understand." "How shall I begin?.. Do you know anything about cats? They have a sixth sense, you know, and some people think their whiskers are a kind of extrasensory antenna." "Interesting theory." "I live with a Siamese, and I swear he's tuned in to some abstruse body of knowledge." She nodded encouragingly. Qwilleran lowered his voice. "Sometimes I get unusual vibrations from my moustache, and I perceive things that aren't obvious to other people.
And that's not all. In the last year or so my sense of smell has been getting unusually keen — disturbingly keen, in fact. And now my hearing is becoming remarkably acute. A few nights ago someone was walking on the beach a hundred feet away — on the soft sand — and I could hear the footsteps through my pillow: thud thud thud." "Quite phenomenal," she said.
"Do you think it's abnormal? Is it something I should worry about?" "They say elephants can hear the footsteps of mice." "I hope you're not implying that I have large ears." "Your ears are very well proportioned," Melinda said. "In fact, you're quite an attractive man — for your age." On the whole Melinda Goodwinter was enjoyable company, although Qwilleran thought she referred to his age too frequently and even asked if he had grandchildren. Nevertheless he was feeling good as he drove home to the cabin; he thought he might start work on his book, or get some exercise. The fog had all but disappeared. Intermittent gusts of offshore breeze were pushing it out to sea, and the lake had a glassy calm. Perfect canoeing weather, he decided.
Qwilleran had not been canoeing since he was a twelve-year-old at summer camp, but he thought he remembered how it was done. He found paddles in the toolshed and chose the longest one. It was easy to drag the aluminum canoe down the sandy slope to the beach, but launching it was another matter, involving wet feet and a teetering lunge into a wobbly and uncooperative craft. When he finally seated himself in the stern and glided across the smooth glistening water, he sensed a glorious mix of exhilaration and peace.
He remembered Aunt Fanny's advice and turned the high bow, which rose out of the water considerably, to follow the shore. A moment later a gust of offshore wind caught the bow, and the canoe swiveled around and headed for open water, but its course was quickly corrected when the breeze abated. He paddled past deserted beaches and lonely dunes topped with tall pines. Farther on was the Top o' the Dunes Club, a row of substantial vacation houses. He fancied the occupants watching and envying him. Two of them waved from their porches.
The offshore breeze sprang up again, riffling the water. The bow swung around like a weathervane, and the canoe skimmed in the direction of Canada a hundred miles away.
Qwilleran summoned all his remembered skills, but nothing worked until the wind subsided again.
He was now farther from shore than appeared wise, and he tried to turn back, but he was out of the lee of the land, and the offshore gusts were persistent, swiveling the bow and making the canoe unmanageable. He paddled frantically, digging the paddle in the water without plan or purpose, desperately trying to turn the canoe. It only drifted farther out, all the while spinning crazily in water that was becoming choppy.