Amelia Gray - Threats

When the call came in that David’s license would be revoked owing to reports of suspected and proven gross malpractice, he wasn’t surprised. He remembered the fallen look of the woman’s face as he pushed the needle into her infant’s jaw, and he knew that this would not be the last he heard from her, that his close attention, his kindness and care, would be repaid with betrayal.

Of course he would fight the charges for years, dwindling his financial resources. It was a matter of personal pride in his work. When he returned from court each time, his wife and his father listened to his stories while looking into middle distance, because they did not understand that it was a matter of personal pride.

He lost the appeals. Nothing more could be said.

THE MORNING featured a chill that might try to convince you to stay down if you happened to slip and fall. The weather might question your actions as you stretched out on the frozen path, pointing out that as long as you continued to rest with your back on the ground, you could see the sky.

The bus stop was empty except for a man reading a map. The man stood next to the bench, though he was alone and the benches were wiped clean. He paged through the map a few inches from his face. He wore the same ivory and blue ski jacket as David, the same reading glasses with the same band of electrical tape circling the center bar. The same speckled gray hair tufted loose over his ears.

“We wear the same glasses,” David said. The man had David’s face shape and the same eye color. He was wearing the same style of clothing, a buttoned brown shirt over brown jeans and the awful jacket, which featured a rip in the same portion of sleeve where David had torn his own on a turnstile. They each wore dark-laced sneakers, but only the strange man was wearing socks. They looked comfortable and woolen. The man folded the map, and David handed him one of the two pieces of toast he had brought from the house wrapped in a napkin. The man accepted the toast and examined it before taking a bite.

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” David said.

“You live around here?” the man asked.

“Right up the hill.”

“I’ve been looking to buy, thought I’d have a peek around out here. Nice neighborhood.” The man ate toast in the same way David did, first chewing the upper arch of crust, tonguing the butter, and holding the mass in his cheek while talking. The man held the mouthful in his left cheek while David typically favored his right, but it was otherwise a precise duplication.

“It’s quiet,” David said. “The neighborhood kids are in school right now or else you’d see more folks outside. Even though it’s pretty cold. People are friendly here.”

The man held the toast up. “Thanks.” He took another bite. Crumbs shattered off and flecked his shirtfront. “Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m working for?”

“Who are you working for?”

“Nobody.”

“Why did you want me to ask you who you’re working for?”

“I’m wandering around your neighborhood, I give some idiot excuse about looking for a house to buy. We look exactly the same, down to a level of detail that could not possibly be coincidental. The question seems apparent.”

David saw that the man also kept frayed ends on his shoestrings. “But you’re not working for anybody,” David said.

The man shrugged. “I should ask you who you’re working for.”

David took a bite of toast. The man took a bite of toast. They chewed and regarded each other. David could see the man packing the bread into his left cheek with his tongue.

“Who are you working for?” asked the man.

“This is ridiculous,” David said. “This is not some kind of spy game. I’m taking the bus to see my mother in a home for women, where she has lived now for many years.”

“My mother doesn’t live at a home for women. Close,” the other man said, advancing a step. “You might call it that. But that’s not where she lives.”

The man had the same deep wrinkle between the eyes, the same mark of a mole at his left temple, matching David’s right. The man was a mirror image. He continued to advance.

“I’m not working for anybody,” David said. “I am unemployed.”

The man stopped advancing. “I have no way to believe you.”

“I have no way to believe you, either.”

“This is not some kind of spy game,” the man said.

A woman bumped into David, and he realized that the bus had arrived. The driver was leaning forward in his seat, watching the two men.

David moved to get on the bus, but the other man stood still. “I’m on the next one,” the man said. “I am on the next instance of this bus.”

“I think it would be for the best if we avoided seeing each other,” the man said to David.

“Any day you want this to happen,” said the driver.

“But you know where I live,” said David. “You’re a visitor here.”

“I know the general area. I don’t know exactly where you live. Are you worried about your safety? I don’t think you need to be worried.”

“Come on, twinsies,” said the driver.

David stepped onto the bus and leaned his head back. “Neither of us should be worried,” he said. He dropped his quarters into the coin slot. Outside, the man finished the piece of toast and shook out the napkin. He folded it once and placed it in his front pocket. David thought he saw words written on the napkin, but the bus door closed between them before he could get a better look.

EVERYONE working at the home for women seemed too young to be there, employed or otherwise. A clean-faced young woman at the reception desk handed David a clipboard and asked him who he was there to see. David pointed toward the meeting area beyond the wire mesh window, where he could see his mother sitting in her wheelchair by herself. The young woman began to speak of a billing dispute. David found a credit card in his wallet and told the young woman to keep it. The young woman seemed satisfied. In return, she gave David a nametag. He affixed it to his shirt, and the woman buzzed him in.

His mother had a blanket over her lap and faced a table on which playing cards were spread facedown. One by one she turned over each card, touched it, and placed it back on the table. At another table, a group of ladies even older than David’s mother drank instant coffee and compared miniature figurines from their collections. Workers were taking down tinsel and cardboard cutouts of trees and placing them in boxes by the front door.

“Mom.” He settled into a chair across from his mother.

She tipped her face up at the sound, smiling in recognition, holding the king of spades. The crevices of her spotted face sunk farther under the light. She was wearing her heavy-framed glasses, as she had for years, despite the blindness.

“Hello, my love. What brings you to paradise?”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m fairly busy today. I should have some time open up in the afternoon.”

“I brought you something.” David produced an Apollonia medal from his pocket and slid it across the table. She placed the king of spades lightly down and reached toward the sound. Her hands found the medal and she touched it with care. “Now isn’t that sweet,” she said. Drawing her hands back, she picked another card from the table, running her fingers along the edges. “Two hearts,” she said.

David ducked his head to see the card’s face. “How did you know?”

“It’s an old trick, my darling. An old trick on an old deck. There are slight discrepancies in each card. One edge of the two hearts waves a bit. Someone may have dipped it in their tea.” She picked up another card and touched the edges, then the face and the back. “Seven clubs,” she said, turning it twice for David to confirm. “There’s a mark on one side, in the center. A hairline scratch. That’s the interesting thing about seven clubs. Seven diamonds has a scratch on the far side, closer to the edge.”