Joshua Ferris: To Rise Again at a Decent Hour

When I looked up from Contacts’s mouth, Mrs. Convoy was standing there. Most of the time Mrs. Convoy looked like an unhappy docent. You got the impression you were about to go on a boring tour of something edifying and that she would make it as punitive as possible. Part of that impression came from her flesh-colored turtleneck, which was tucked severely into her slacks and fit tightly over her splayed AARP breasts, and part of it came from her silvered crew cut, and part of it came from her pale facial down, which stood straight up on her neck and cheeks as if trying to attract balloons. But on this occasion she was beaming at me.

“What?” I said.

“You did it, you!”

“Did what?”

“I thought you were dead set against, but you did it.”

“Tell me what you’re talking about, Betsy.”

“The website.”

“What website?”

“Our website,” she said.

I swiveled away from my patient and snapped off my latex gloves. “We don’t have a website,” I said.

Turns out I was in for a surprise.

Betsy Convoy was my head hygienist and a devout Roman Catholic. If ever I was tempted to become a Christian, which I never was, but if I was, I thought I would do well to become a Roman Catholic like Mrs. Convoy. She attended Mass at Saint Joan of Arc Church in Jackson Heights where she expressed her faith with hand gestures, genuflections, recitations, liturgies, donations, confessions, lit candles, saints’ days, and several different call-and-responses. Catholics speak, like baseball players, in the coded language of gesture. Sure, the Roman Catholic Church is an abomination to man and a disgrace to God, but it comes with a highly structured Mass, several sacred pilgrimages, the oldest songs, the most impressive architecture, and a whole bunch of things to do whenever you enter the church. Taken all together, they make you one with your brother.

Say I would come in from outside and go straight to the sink to wash my hands. It didn’t matter which sink, Mrs. Convoy would find me. She’d sniff at me like a bloodhound and then she’d say, “What exactly have you been doing?” I’d tell her, and she’d say, “Why do you feel the need to lie to me?” I’d tell her, and she’d say, “Scrutiny does not kill people. Smoking kills people. What kind of example do you think you’re setting for your patients by sneaking off to smoke cigarettes?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “They do not need a reminder of ‘the futility of it all’ from their dental professional. When did you take up smoking again?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Then why did you tell everyone you quit?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I do not see how the occasional show of concern is ‘utterly strangulating.’ I would like to see you live up to your potential, that is all. Don’t you wish you had more self-control?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Of course I will not join you. What are you doing? Do not light that cigarette!” I’d put the cigarettes away with an offhand remark, she’d say, “How am I a trial? I am not the trial here. The trial is between you and your addictions. Do you want to ruin your lungs and die a young man?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “You are not already in hell. Shall I tell you what hell will be like?” I’d answer, she’d say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, any conversation can turn into a discussion on the salvation of the soul. It’s a pity more don’t. What are you doing at that window?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “We are on the ground floor. You would hardly manage to sprain an ankle.”

I’d come out of the bathroom and she’d be standing right there. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she’d say. “Where have you been?” I’d tell her the obvious, she’d say, “Why must you call it the Thunderbox?” I’d tell her, adding a few details, and she’d grow severe, she’d say, “Please do not refer to what you do in the bathroom as ‘making the pope’s fountain.’ I know the pope is just a joke to you. I know the Catholic Church is nothing but a whetting stone for your wit. But I happen to hold the church in the highest regard, and though you can’t understand that, if you had any respect for me you would mind what you say about the pope.” I’d answer with an apology, but she’d ignore me. “Sometimes I honestly wonder whether you care about anyone’s feelings but your own.” And she’d walk away. I’d never learn why she was standing outside the Thunderbox unless it was to bring grief to us both.

Later, after letting it fester, she’d say, “Well, tell me. Do you care about anyone else’s feelings? Do you have any respect for me at all?”

Of course I had respect for her. Let’s say the day’s scheduling worked out as planned and we had five cleanings to perform all at once. To minimize wait times, and to maximize my turnaround, I would normally require three if not four dedicated hygienists. But I had Betsy Convoy. Betsy Convoy, with the help of one or two rotating temps, could manage all five chairs. She could X-ray, chart, scale, and polish, tutor each patient in preventive treatment, leave detailed notes for my follow-up exams, and still manage to supervise the staff and oversee the scheduling. Most dentists won’t believe that. But then most dentists have never had a truly great hygienist like Mrs. Convoy.

“Well?” she’d say. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

But most days I would have cheerfully stood by and watched her die. Better her dead, I thought, than being around. I would never have found anyone to replace her, but Betsy Convoy being around, there was the true Calvary. Poor Betsy. She was responsible for our efficiency, our professionalism, and a good portion of our monthly billing. Her internalization of Catholicism and its institutional disappointments suited a dental office perfectly, where guilt was often our last resort for motivating the masses. Handing out a toothbrush to a charity patient, she’d tell that person, “Be faithful in small things.” Who does that? But then, out of nowhere, I’d imagine her getting fucked doggy-style by a muscular African on one of the dental chairs.

“Of course I respect you, Betsy. We couldn’t go on without you.”

Later, at the bar, I’d be the last one to leave, she’d be second to last. She’d say, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “How are you going to get home?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Connie’s gone, dear. She left two hours ago. Come on, let’s get you home.” She’d put me in a cab, she’d say, “Can you handle it from here?” I’d tell her, she’d say, to the cabbie she’d say, “He lives in Brooklyn,” and then I don’t know what.

We’d take a one-off trip somewhere far-flung. I’d fight and fight and say no fucking way, but somehow she’d get me on that plane. We once flew from JFK to New Delhi and from New Delhi to Biju Patnaik and from there took a train fifty kilometers inland, where we walked through the cesspool streets in sweltering heat as limbless beggars crutched behind us issuing soft exhortations. The clinic was little more than two armchairs under a luncheon umbrella. We were stationed right next to the cleft-palate folks. It was enough just to see them at work. I’d say to her, “I can’t believe I let you drag me to this goddamned country.” She’d tell me not to take the Lord’s name in vain. I’d say, “Might not be the best time to demand a show of respect for the Lord. How much respect did the good Lord show these kids?” Pulp necrosis, tongue lesions, goiterlike presentations on account of the abscesses. I could go on. I will go on: stained teeth, fractured teeth, necrotic teeth, teeth growing one behind the other, growing sideways, growing from the roof of the mouth, ulcers, open sores, gingival discharge, dry sockets, trench mouth, incurable caries, and the malnutrition that follows from the impossibility of eating. Those tender infant mouths never stood a chance. A sane person doesn’t stick around in the hopes of making a dent. A sane person takes the next plane home. I stayed for tax reasons, that’s it. A solid write-off. And I liked the roasted lamb. You can’t find lamb that good even in Manhattan. Mrs. Convoy said we were there to do God’s work. “I’m here for the lamb,” I told her. As for God’s work, I said, “Seems like we’re undoing it.” She disagreed. This was the reason we had been put on earth. “Pessimism, skepticism, complaint, and outrage,” I said to her. “That’s why we were put on earth. Unless you were born out here. Then it’s pretty clear your only purpose was to suffer.”