To Rise Again at a Decent Hour: A Novel

  When I finally got inside his mouth and had a look around, I confirmed Mrs. Convoy’s notes: bone loss, gum pockets measuring sevens and eights. I never put odds on teeth with gum pockets of sevens and eights. But I vowed then and there to do everything I could to help him resume his fifty years of flossing. I removed the explorer and smiled down on him, placing my hand on his child’s shoulder. “Eddie?” I said. “Eddie, just what are we going to do with you, I wonder.”

  Connie was at the front desk doing some filing.

  “Where’s Connie?” I asked her.

  “I’m right here,” she said.

  “Ah! My brain’s going. I mean Abby, where’s Abby? She was here this morning.”

  Connie suddenly got real busy.

  “Connie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where’s Abby?”

  “She quit,” she said.

  “She what?”

  “She quit,” she said. “Abby quit.”

  “What the hell for?”

  She wasn’t looking at me.

  “Connie, stop filing and look at me. Look at me! Stop!” She stopped filing. “What do you mean she quit? What did she quit for?”

  “She took a new job,” she said. “She’s pursuing new opportunities.”

  “New opportunities?” I said. “Abby?”

  “Yeah, Abby,” she said. “Is that so outrageous?”

  “What new opportunities?” I said. “Did she give notice? Most people give notice. It would be unlike Abby not to give notice,” I said.

  “She didn’t give notice,” she said. “Unless you count lunch. Which she had off anyway.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “She quit, Paul. She’d had enough.”

  “She’d had enough? Hold on,” I said. “Having enough is totally different from pursuing new opportunities.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” she said.

  It was time for Abby to get serious about being an actress, Connie explained, and to do that, she needed a job with greater flexibility. This was not the first time I’d heard rumors that Abby was some kind of aspiring actress. I should have let it suffice. People quit all the time and on the flimsiest of pretexts, and intelligent people have learned not to poke at those pretexts too closely, for fear of what might come flying out. But I couldn’t shut up about it. I couldn’t comprehend Abby not giving notice. It was common courtesy to give notice. Abby was taciturn but not discourteous. I pressed Connie and pressed her until finally she admitted that among Abby’s stated reasons for quitting was that I could be a bit much to work for. No news flash there. Also, said Connie, Abby had looked at what I was posting on Twitter, and not liking what she’d found there, not liking my so-called online persona, decided to quit right away rather than give notice.

  “But that’s not me! Doesn’t she know that’s not me?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Didn’t you tell her?”

  “I told her.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “She either didn’t believe me, or she didn’t care.”

  “But Abby’s not even Jewish,” I said.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “If somebody should be quitting, it’s you,” I said, “not Abby. Abby’s a Presbyterian, or a Methodist, or something.”

  “A Presbyterian or a Methodist?” she said. “You didn’t even know she was an actress until five minutes ago.”

  “How long has she been an actress?”

  “And you don’t have to be Jewish to dislike anti-Semitic remarks. That’s a pretty universal sentiment in America these days.”

  “But if anything,” I said, “if you read my tweets all at once, they’re really more anti-Muslim. Or anti-Christian. Antireligion in general, if you read them all at once.”

  “When you’re hiring for her replacement,” she said, “you can post that in the ad.”

  “Does Abby even know anything about the history of Judaism? Is she aware of what real anti-Semitism even looks like?”

  “Real anti-Semitism?”

  She looked at me like I’d lost it.

  “What?” I said.

  “Do you know what this bizarre little identity theft of yours has taught me?”

  I sighed, then gestured for her to give it to me.

  “The only people qualified to judge what ‘real’ anti-Semitism is and what it’s not are Jews. Which excludes you.”

  I went back and sat across from Darla, the diminutive temp, who apparently had no objections to working for an anti-Semite. How badly Abby and I must have misjudged each other, I thought, and after so long being day after day only a few feet apart for hours at a stretch. It was inconceivable that she could be gone, and without so much as a goodbye. That afternoon, she must have just drifted out, or slipped out purposefully, and I thought nothing of her sudden absence, even welcoming it as that break in the continuity so commonly referred to as lunch. I had no idea that it would be the last chance I’d have to take her aside and apologize for being such a moody bastard. I was sorry for being so moody. I was sorry for being terse, cold, stern, dismissive, withholding, and unremittingly indifferent to every aspect of her being. No wonder she never came to me, no wonder she was gone.

  Abby gone!

  I worried about losing Mrs. Convoy next. I could not lose Mrs. Convoy and keep O’Rourke Dental running smoothly. In so many ways, Betsy Convoy was O’Rourke Dental.

  When I found her, she had already begun the day’s sterilizing. “Betsy,” I said, “I’d like to talk to you about why Abby quit.”

  She set everything down, reached out, and took me by the hand. I could feel the expert little bones inside her fingers.

  “Have I ever told you what a fine dentist you are?” she asked.

  During Betsy’s first year at O’Rourke Dental, when her superhuman skills still had the power to awe, I wanted nothing more than some sign of her opinion of me. I hoped that she considered herself to be working alongside a worthy partner. She was the best hygienist I’d ever known. Over time, I took her excellence for granted, and she simply became Betsy Convoy, devout R.C. and double-wide ballbreaker. But here she was, years later, giving me what I had once longed for.

  “Thank you, Betsy,” I said.

  “My husband, may he rest in peace, was also a good dentist. But he was not of your caliber. I’ve worked with a number of good dentists over the years. None of them has been of your caliber.”

  “I’m honored to hear you say that.”

  She smiled at me.

  She released my hand and resumed sterilizing.

  “But about Abby quitting,” I said.

  “She’s pursuing new opportunities,” she said. “She’s always wanted to be an actress.”

  “But that’s not the only reason she quit,” I said.

  I told her what was being said in my name on Twitter. I removed my me-machine and read her my most recent posts.

  “Aren’t you curious about all that?” I asked her.

  “Why should I be?”

  “Because those posts are in my name.”

  “Did you write them?”

  “No, but shouldn’t you wonder if I did?”

  “What for?”

  “What for? Betsy, many of these comments can be construed as anti-Semitic. Which would seem to imply that I’m an anti-Semite.”

  “Are you an anti-Semite?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But the Internet sort of implies I am. Isn’t it important to you, to know if I am or not?”

  “But you just said you weren’t.”

  “But I had to come to you and tell you that. Once you heard why Abby quit, shouldn’t you have come to me? Shouldn’t you have voiced some concern? We’re talking about one of the ugliest prejudices in the history of mankind.”

  “But I know you. You aren’t that way.”

  “But shouldn’t you question just a little the possibility that maybe you don’t know me?”
r />   “I don’t understand what your point is, Paul. Are you an anti-Semite, or aren’t you?”

  “The point is you’re not curious! You’re not showing any concern! What if I am an anti-Semite?”

  “But you’ve said that you’re not.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I’m going to finish the sterilizing now,” she said. “If you wish to tell me that you’re an anti-Semite, I’ll be right here.”

  “Prove I’m not!” I cried. “Have a look online and prove it!”

  She left the room. That was all she and I said on the subject.

  My last patient of the day was a marketing executive with three cavities in need of filling. I conveyed that information to him and then was called away momentarily. When I returned, the marketing executive said, “I don’t think I’m going to have them filled.”

  His X-rays were still on-screen. He could see his cavities as well as anyone. I looked again at his chart. He was well insured. There was no financial reason not to have his cavities filled. And I took it on faith that oral upkeep was at least of some concern to him. Otherwise, he would not have made the appointment.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I do strongly recommend having those cavities filled at some point. They’re just going to get worse over time.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Is it the pain you’re worried about?”

  He looked puzzled. “It’s not painful to have a cavity filled, is it?”

  “No,” I said, “that’s why I ask. It’s not painful at all. We numb you.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “No, it’s not the pain.”

  “So just out of curiosity,” I said, “if it’s not the pain, why not have them filled? They’re just going to get worse over time, and then you really will be in pain.”

  “Because I feel fine right now,” he said. “I don’t feel like I have any cavities.”

  “But you do have cavities,” I said. “I just showed you where your cavities are. Look, they’re right here.”

  I started to show him a second time.

  “You don’t have to show me again,” he said. “I saw them the first time. I believe you.”

  “So if you believe me, and you see there’s a problem, why not get it fixed? You have three cavities.”

  “Because I don’t feel like I have them.”

  “You don’t feel like you have them?”

  “I don’t feel like I have them,” he said.

  I was growing a little frustrated.

  “Okay,” I said, “but indulge me for a moment. Look here, at the screen. Do you see the areas in shadow? One, two, three. Three cavities.”

  “According to your X-rays,” he said. “And that’s fine. But I’m just telling you how I feel.”

  “How you feel?”

  “Right now I just don’t feel like I have any cavities. I feel fine.”

  “But cavities aren’t something you always feel. That’s why we take the X-rays. To show you what you can’t feel.”

  “That might be your way,” he said, “and that’s fine, but it’s not my way.”

  “Not your way?” I said. “They’re X-rays. They’re everyone’s way. They’re science’s way.”

  “And that’s fine,” he said. “But my way is how I feel, and right now I feel fine.”

  “Then why did you come in? If you feel so fine and you don’t care what the X-rays say, why come in?”

  “Because,” he said, “you’re supposed to. Every six months, you’re supposed to see the dentist.”

  “Dr. O’Rourke?”

  Connie was standing in the doorway.

  “Will you excuse me?” I asked the marketing executive.

  I went straight over, never happier to see her. “That guy in there,” I whispered, “won’t take my advice and get his cavities filled, because he says he doesn’t feel like he has any. He says he feels fine, so why should he have them filled? I’m showing him his cavities on-screen, and he tells me that’s just my ‘way.’ X-rays are my ‘way,’ he says. Science is my ‘way.’ His way is to feel around with his tongue and everything feels fine so just ignore the X-rays and the expert opinion. And when I ask him why he came in if he feels so fine, he tells me it’s because he’s supposed to! Every six months, you’re supposed to see your dentist! Is this really how people think? Is this really how they get along? Is it that easy?”

  “My uncle Stuart’s here to see you,” she said.

  I was quiet. “Again?”

  The waiting room was empty with the exception of Stuart and an Asian woman sitting next to him, sunglasses perched on her head. They stood, the sunglasses came down, and Stuart introduced her. Her name was Wendy Chu, and she worked for Pete Mercer.

  “You know Pete Mercer?” I said to Stuart.

  “Not me personally,” he said. “I only know Wendy.”

  Wendy was so petite and youthful looking behind the sunglasses that she might have been struggling for straight As in the seventh grade. She handed me a business card. Reading it, I was reminded of what Mercer had said in passing about having hired a private detective. The card read “Chu Investigations.” I looked back at her. We’ve come a long way, baby, from fedoras and frosted-glass doors.

  “And how do you know Wendy?” I asked Stuart.

  Wendy answered for him. “Funny things happen when two people go looking for the same woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “Paul,” said Stuart, “we’re here to ask you a favor. Would you accompany us into Brooklyn when you’re finished for the night?”

  “What for?”

  “There’s someone Mercer would like you to meet,” said Wendy.

  “Where is Mercer?” I asked.

  “He’s no longer involved,” she said.

  “Involved in what?”

  She looked at me blankly behind her sunglasses.