Start in any corner, then—”
Bob shook his head. “I heard about your tic-tac-toe thing.”
“Sally clearly gave you a thorough briefing through Mary.”
“Sally did it directly,” said Bob. “She came to the clinic herself. I had a BB gun when I was fourteen. Got it out of my system. But thanks. And you bought a football helmet? Sally said you wear it around the house a lot. Is that right?”
“It covers my bald head. Want to see it? It’s a Chiefs’.”
Again, Bob shook his head. “I’ve seen them on television during the games. Bob Junior has one, too. So do most of his friends.” Bob Junior was the Gidneys’ thirteen-year-old son.
Otis, ignoring Bob’s lack of interest, stepped back inside the house and returned with the Chiefs helmet. He put it on and said, “See? Changes everything about me, doesn’t it?”
Bob Gidney said nothing. Otis took off the helmet, turned it over, and showed Bob the inside foam padding and the adjustable headband that held the helmet in place on his head. “I read somewhere that the pros stick things up here in the webbing for good luck during games—money, letters, religious medals, pages from the Bible, condoms, women’s panties. Stuff like that.”
“I didn’t know that, Otis,” Bob said.
Otis set the helmet down on a table, and they took seats on the white plastic lawn chairs on the slate patio.
“What’s going on, Otis?” Bob asked.
“You’re the shrink, you tell me.”
“I hate being called a shrink. How would you like being called a bloodsucker—as some people call insurance people?”
What people call us that?
thought Otis. But he said, “When you were a kid, you wanted a BB gun, and you got one. Was there anything you really wanted but couldn’t have?”
Bob grinned. “My own set of golf clubs. I played on the high school golf team at Wilmington, but always with borrowed clubs. I wanted my own, but there wasn’t money to buy them.”
“When did you get your own?”
“After medical school. The first time I had more than a few bucks, I bought a set from a friend. I didn’t have that much time to play golf, but I wanted the clubs, just in case.”
“What else? Maybe something you never did get.”
Bob really was no fool. Otis could tell that he knew what all of this was leading to, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“A Cushman motor scooter,” said Bob.
“Me, too!”
“A red one.”
“They only came in red. At least I never saw one in any other color.”
“Me, neither. Five or six guys in our school had them. And they always had a gorgeous girl sitting behind them, holding on for dear life. My parents thought motor scooters were too dangerous, too expensive, and too exhibitionist.”
“Same, same, same with me. God, what a coincidence. I wonder if they even still make Cushmans.”
“Don’t even think about it, Otis,” Bob said. “Drive up to this house someday with a Cushman, and I promise you, Sally will make me commit you.”
“Then why don’t
you
buy one, and I can borrow it occasionally?”
“I don’t want a motor scooter anymore. I wanted one when I was twelve years old, but I’m not twelve years old anymore.”
“Speak for yourself, Bob.”
“I just did.”
It was time to rejoin the ladies for dessert. Bob got up from his chair, and then Otis did.
“We’ve got a man at the clinic who is right up your alley, Otis,” Bob said. “His name is Russ Tonganoxie. He’s new, and he’s a bit on the different side. But he’s the best in this field.”
And what exactly is this field?
Otis thought to ask but decided not to, because he really didn’t want to hear the answer.
Bob said, “Let me know—or you can have Sally call me— when you want to talk to him.”
He made it sound inevitable.
is NAME WAS Roger Atchison, but he said most everyone called him “The Cushman King” because he owned more and knew more about Cushman motor scooters than any other human being on the face of the
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