Mark Dunn - American Decameron

There are three things that probably shouldn’t be said to the victim of a brutal, late-night assault in a dark parking lot.

The first is “How are you holding up, hon?” This from the victim’s mother.

The victim — Abby Alpert — didn’t know how to answer. She was still having nightmares, although the panic attacks had subsided and she’d even been able to go to the movies with her girlfriends the previous Friday night (something light, a romantic comedy).

The second is “Aren’t you glad he didn’t rape you?” This from Abby’s best girlfriend, Tish.

Abby’s reply: “Yes, I’m very glad he didn’t rape me. But allow me, please, to still feel violated, nonetheless, by the attack.”

The third is “So when do you think you’ll be able to come back to work?” This from Abby’s sensitivity-challenged employer, Thom Jensen, DDS. Abby had been out for two weeks and Thom the dentist and his office manager Ms. Purdy were getting tired of beating the bushes of Port St. Lucie for part-time hygienists to fill in for all of Abby’s appointments, this being August, and so many of Florida’s dental hygienists having temporarily fled the state for cooler climes “off-peninsula.”

“I’ll be back on Monday, Thom.”

“You’re ready to come back?”

“I’m ready to come back. And even if I’m not, I need to come back. I need to get back into my routine.”

“Excellent,” said Thom. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Monday came. Abby rose early. She had an eight-thirty. She showered and dressed, nuked a frozen scone in the microwave, and then steeled herself to spend the day doing what she was very good at: cleaning teeth, making other people feel comfortable and relaxed during a sometimes intimidating trip to the dentist’s office. Abby was a popular hygienist. Some of her patients had switched dentists just to have Abby clean their teeth. It was a good job, a job she really loved. She hoped that she would be able to concentrate, that her hand wouldn’t shake, that memories of the attack wouldn’t intrude on her thoughts at inopportune moments.

Her eight-thirty went well. Mrs. Johnstone. One of Abby’s oldest patients (among a goodly number of senior-citizen transplants), Mrs. Johnstone was solemnly mindful of what Abby had been through and asked no questions. Her nine-thirty, Ginger Lopez, a bartender in her mid-thirties, was too used to drunken customers spilling their guts. Abby had to make it clear that she didn’t feel like doing any spilling that morning.

Her ten-thirty, Mr. Spinella, cancelled at the last minute. He was a real estate attorney and the time of a closing got moved up and he was very sorry — his secretary said — and, of course, he would pay, in full, for the missed appointment.

Abby’s eleven-thirty was a new patient — just moved to Port St. Lucie, he told Ms. Purdy on the phone. Abby didn’t want any new patients that first week back. She only wanted to clean the teeth of people she knew. She had neglected to tell Ms. Purdy this. It was her own fault.

The man came on time. Abby poked her head out into the waiting room and called his name: Davin Romey. He was a fairly young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a short and stocky wrestler’s build. The first thing that Abby noticed about him was the wide breadth of his chest. He was wearing a fitted ecru-colored t-shirt under a loose blue summer jacket. He got up and took off the jacket. Abby noticed now that he had muscular arms, both biceps and forearms. Abby always thought of Popeye when she met men with overly developed forearms. Normal protocol, especially for a first-time patient, was to greet the patient and shake his hand. But Abby didn’t want to shake this man’s hand. He obviously wouldn’t know her story and might even think her rude, but she didn’t care; she didn’t want to shake the man’s hand. Entering the man’s open mouth with all of her dental instruments was intimate enough for her.

As Abby was leading Mr. Romey down the corridor to her room, she asked him how he had come to pick Dr. Jensen’s practice. “Did someone recommend us to you?”

The man shrugged. “Phone book. Yellow pages. A dentist is a dentist, right?”

Wrong. But Abby didn’t want to engage him. There was something about his voice that didn’t sit well with her.

Abby pulled the long arm of the dental unit out of the way so that the man could slide easily into the chair. She took a look at the questionnaire for new patients he’d filled out in the waiting room. “You’ve had some gum problems?”

The man nodded. “I chewed tobacco for a few years. I think it did a number on my teeth and gums.”

I know that voice .

“When was the last time you visited a dentist?”

“Two, maybe three years ago.”

Once Romey had settled in, Abby said, “I’m going to take some X-rays.” Romey nodded. Abby covered his chest with the lead shield and placed the thyroid collar around his neck. “Open, please,” she said, after she had put the unexposed film on the X-ray mount. She inserted the bitewing into the man’s mouth. “Bite down, please.”

There was a smell about him. Cologne.

When she had finished with the X-rays, she said, “I’ll be right back.” She took the film down to the room where the X-rays were developed. Suddenly, she felt queasy. Was it the two cups of coffee she’d had with her thawed-out scone? Sometimes coffee gave her a sour stomach.

He’s wearing the man’s cologne. The man who assaulted me. He’s wearing the same brand of cologne as the man who grabbed me and pulled me behind the Dumpster. He pulled me with forceful arms. Strong, muscular arms .

And there were two other smells, along with the cologne. What were those other smells?

Abby had to sit down. Jensen’s assistant Loretta — a young woman whom Abby really liked (she didn’t ask stupid questions) — appeared in the doorway.

“Are you okay?” This was a legitimate question.

Abby felt weak. Loretta noticed that she was slightly pale.

“I’m okay,” said Abby.

“Do you want to go home?”

“I’m in the middle of an appointment.”

“Screw that. Go home if you need to.”

Abby shook her head. Then she shook her head again, along with her shoulders and arms, in the same way that actors shake themselves to limber up before a performance.

Get a grip. You’re being idiotic. You’re grasping at coincidences. This is a man named Mr. Romey. He has come in to get his teeth cleaned. The form said that he’s employed as a locksmith. This is what he does, Abby. He makes keys. He doesn’t terrorize women in late night parking lots. Stop it. Pull yourself together .

Abby pulled herself together. She returned to her patient. She liked it that he wasn’t overly friendly, that he only spoke when she asked him a question. Abby liked people as a rule. She liked talking to her patients and having them talk back, but she also liked that other aspect to her job — the option, when she didn’t feel like listening to people, to put things into their mouths to keep them quiet.

Abby sat down on her wheeled saddle-stool. She depressed the foot pedal to recline the patient chair. She rolled over to the tray of instruments and plucked up her explorer and mirror. She pulled down the lamp and concentrated its beam on Romey’s open mouth. She used the explorer and the mirror to look for cavities. Nothing obvious there, but the mouth still showed evidence of some abuse. The chewing tobacco, she imagined. She traded the explorer for the probe so she could look for pockets. There had been a pronounced receding of the gums.