Christopher Moore - The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

Valerie Riordan dropped her pen and slumped in her chair—a very unprofessional move, Estelle thought.

“Excuse me?” Val said.

“A sea monster. We were at the beach the other night, and something came up out of the water. Something big. We ran for the car, and later Catfish told me that he was once chased by a sea monster down in the Delta and that it had come back to get him. He says he doesn’t want other people to get hurt, but I think he’s just afraid. He thinks the monster will come back as long as he’s on the coast. He’s trying to get a gig in Iowa, as far from the coast as he can get. Do you think he’s just afraid to commit? I read a lot about that in the women’s magazines.”

“A sea monster? Is that a metaphor for something? Some Blues term that I’m not getting?”

“No, I think it’s a reptile, at least the way he describes it. I didn’t get a good look at it. It ate his best friend when he was a young man. I think he’s running away from the guilt. What do you think?”

“Estelle, there’s no such thing as sea monsters.”

“Catfish said that no one would believe me.”

“Catfish?”

“That’s his name. My Bluesman. He’s very sweet. He has a sense of gallantry that you don’t see much anymore. I don’t think it’s an act. He’s too old for that. I didn’t think I would ever feel this way again. These are girl feelings, not woman feelings. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I want to have his grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Sure, he’s had his days with the booze and the hos, but I think he’s ready to settle down.”

“The booze and the hos?”

Dr. Val seemed to have gone into some sort of fugue state, working on a stunned psychiatrist autopilot where all she could do was parrot what Estelle said back in the form of a question. Estelle needed more input than this.

“Do you think I should tell the authorities?”

“About the booze and the hos?”

“The sea monster. That Plotznik boy is missing, you know?”

Dr. Val made a show of straightening her blouse and assuming a controlled, staid, professional posture. “Estelle, I think we may need to adjust your medication.”

“I haven’t been taking it. But I feel fine. Catfish says that if Prozac had been invented a hundred years ago there wouldn’t have been any Blues at all. Just a lot of happy people with no soul. I tend to agree with him. The antidepressants served their purpose for me after Joe died, but I’m not sure I need them now. I even feel like I could get some painting done—if I can find some time away from sex.”

Dr. Val winced. “I was thinking of something besides antidepressants, Estelle. You obviously are dealing with some serious changes right now. I’m not sure how to proceed. Do you think that Mr., uh, Catfish would mind coming to a session with you?”

“That might be tough. He doesn’t like your mojo.”

“My mojo?”

“Not your mojo in particular. Just psychiatrist’s mojo in general. He spent a little time in a mental hospital in Mississippi after the monster ate his friend. He didn’t care for the staff’s mojo.” Estelle realized that her vocabulary, even her way of thinking, had changed over the last few days, the result of immersion in Catfish’s Blues world.

The doctor was rubbing her temples again. “Estelle, let’s make another appointment for tomorrow or the next day. Tell Chloe to add it on at the end of the day if I’m booked up. And try to bring your gentleman along with you. In the meantime, assure him that my practice is mojo-free, would you?”

Estelle stood. “Can that little girl write with those oven mitts on?”

“She’ll manage.”

“So what should I do? I don’t want him to go. But I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself by falling in love. I’m happy, but I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m worried.” Estelle realized that she was starting to whine and looked at her shoes, ashamed.

“That’s our time, Estelle. Let’s save this for our next appointment.”

“Right. Should I tell the constable about the sea monster?”

“Let’s hold off on that for now. These things have a way of taking care of themselves.”

“Thanks, Dr. Val. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye, Estelle.”

Estelle left the office and stopped at Chloe’s desk outside. The girl was gone, but there were animal noises coming from the bathroom just down the hall. Perhaps she had caught one of the oven mitts on her nose ring. Poor thing. Estelle went to the bathroom door and knocked lightly.

“Are you okay in there, dear? Do you need some help?”

The answer came back in high moan. “I’m fine. Really fine. Thanks. Oh my God!”

“You’re sure?”

“No, that’s all right!”

“I’m supposed to make an appointment for tomorrow or the next day. The doctor said to pencil it in late if you have to.” Estelle could hear thumping noises coming from the bathroom, and it sounded as if the medicine cabinet had dumped.

“Oh wow! Wow! Oh wow!”

The scheduling must really have been tight. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore. Call me to confirm, would you, dear?”

Estelle left Valerie Riordan’s house even more unsettled than she had come in, thinking that it had been quite some time, half a day anyway, since she had had her skinny Bluesman between the sheets.

Val had a break between appointments, time in which to reflect on her suspicion that by taking everyone in Pine Cove off antidepressants, she had turned the town into a squirrel’s nest. Estelle Boyet had always been a tad eccentric, it was part of her artist persona, but Val had never seen this as unhealthy. On the contrary, the self-image of an eccentric artist seemed to help Estelle get over losing her husband. But now the woman was raving about sea monsters, and worse, she was getting involved in a relationship with a man that could only be construed as self-destructive.

Could people—rational adult people—still fall in love like that? Could they still feel like that? Val wanted to feel like that. For the first time since her divorce, it occurred to her that she actually wanted to be involved again with a man. No, not just involved, in love. She pulled her Rolodex from the desk drawer and thumbed through it until she found the number of her psychiatrist in San Junipero. She had been in analysis all through med school and residency, it was an integral part of the training of any psychiatrist, but she hadn’t seen her therapist in over five years. Maybe it was time. What sort of cynicism had come over her, that she was interpreting the desire to fall in love as a condition requiring treatment? Maybe her cynicism was the problem. Of course she couldn’t tell him about what she had done to her patients, but perhaps…

A red light blinked on the tiny LED panel on her phone and the incoming call, screened by Chloe, who had obviously taken a short break from her self-abuse, scrolled across the screen. Constable Crowe, line one. Speaking of squirrels.

She picked up the phone. “Dr. Riordan.”

“Hi, Dr. Riordan, this is Theo Crowe. I just called to tell you that you were right.”

“Thank you for calling, Constable. Have a nice day.”

“You were right about Bess Leander not taking the antidepressants. I just got a look at the toxicology report. There was no Zoloft in her system.”

Val stopped breathing.

“Doctor, are you there?”

All her worries about the drugs, this whole perverse plan, all the extra sessions, the long hours, the guilt, the friggin‘ guilt, and Bess Leander hadn’t been taking her medication at all. Val felt sick to her stomach.

“Doctor?” Theo said.

Val forced herself to take a deep breath. “Why? I mean, when? It’s been over a month. When did you find this out?”