“Why?” I asked.
And, like he had also prepared for this outcome, like he just fucking knew this was coming, he rolled his eyes. “Lillian? Why do you think the kids might need to see a doctor?”
“Because they catch on fire?” I offered.
“Yes, because they catch on fire,” he replied.
“But why now?” I asked. “That’s what I don’t get.”
“Just a precautionary measure,” he said. “Just to make sure everything’s the same. Not better. But not worse. Do you understand?”
“Because of the secretary of state thing?” I guessed.
“Yes,” he replied; he was tired. It was a little easier working with him when he was tired.
“I wish you’d told me earlier,” I said. “I have to put that gel on them, and it takes a while.”
“No,” he said. “We need them in a natural state. For the exam.”
I didn’t know if there was a way to say the word exam without it sounding creepy, but if there was, Carl had not found it. “Carl, is this a real doctor?” I asked.
“It’s complicated,” he said, which is absolutely not what you want to hear when you ask if the person you’re going to see is a licensed physician.
But I also knew it was pointless to fight him, that this came from Jasper, or Madison more likely. It was going to happen. At least the kids could have more ice cream afterward.
“I am going to be there the entire time, okay? Both of us, actually,” I told him.
“Of course,” he said.
Once we were dressed and ready, Carl pulled up in a green Honda Civic, a surprisingly ugly car, considering how nondescript it was. It looked like the kind of car that a man who sold calendars door-to-door would drive.
“Whose car is this?” I asked Carl.
“It’s mine,” he said.
“I thought you had the Miata,” I told him.
“I have two cars,” he said.
“Why do you have this car?” I asked.
“Because sometimes you don’t want to show up in a red sports car,” he told me. “Sometimes you need to show up in a Honda Civic. And tell me again what kind of car you drive?”
“That’s not important,” I said. “C’mon, kiddos.”
The interior was pristine, like it had just come off the lot. It was so impressive that I smiled at Carl, nodding my approval.
“Can we listen to music?” Roland asked.
“Absolutely not,” Carl replied, checking his rearview mirror. And we were off.
We were headed to a little town north of Nashville called Springfield. We drove past acres of tobacco on country roads until we pulled up to a two-story house with a white picket fence, the state flag of Tennessee flying from a pole set in the middle of the front yard.
“So,” I said, “just somebody’s house? Not a doctor’s office?”
“You’ll see,” Carl said, already stepping out of the car. As I collected the kids, who were bored and hot, I saw an ancient man appear on the porch, wearing a huge red bow tie, a blue oxford shirt, khakis, and red suspenders. He had on little round glasses. He looked like Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn guy. He looked insane in that way of people who put great effort into choosing ridiculous clothing. I prayed this was not the doctor.
“I’m the doctor!” he said, waving to the children.
“Oh god,” I said, and Carl surreptitiously jabbed me in the side.
“Hello, Carl,” he said.
“Dr. Cannon,” Carl replied.
“Well, come on,” Dr. Cannon said to the children, walking down the steps of the front porch. “Let’s have a look at you.” The children seemed baffled by this man, his enthusiasm. But they weren’t afraid. They walked toward him.
“Come on to my office,” he told them, and we all followed him around the house to a small white building, a single room, set in the backyard. He unlocked the door and walked in. “This belonged to my grandfather, if you can believe that,” he told us. “Eighteen ninety-six. Every town of a notable size would have a good country doctor, of course. Now, this hasn’t been in use for many, many years, but ever since I retired from practicing medicine, I like to sit in here. I like to sit in here and think.”
The wooden floors were painted gray and the walls were white. It felt so tiny in there, with all of us packed in. There were really old-looking medical instruments that I hoped would not be used today. There was a rickety wooden examining table upholstered in black leather. There were oil lamps and old bottles with labels for various quack pills. It looked like something you’d find in a living museum, a historical village. It looked like something a crazy person would have in their backyard.