By M.N. Wiggins
Without remorse, Melvin’s alarm announced the arrival of seven a.m. Seven would have been sleeping–in three years ago. Three years ago, he’d lived in Maumelle, a 20 to 30-minute drive to his practice in downtown Little Rock, depending on traffic. But now, living in a loft directly over his clinic, seven arrived earlier each day. The seven & sevens he’d knocked back at McKeen’s last night weren’t making it any rosier. He flopped an arm to the other half of the bed without opening his eyes. It returned the same report it’d given the day before and the day before that—no Alexis.
Melvin stood groggy-eyed in his bathroom, replenishing the Earth with last night’s fluid intake, his recycling effort on the day. He zombie-walked into the loft’s tiny living room/kitchen to make himself a Dolly Parton Nine-to-Five cup of ambition and burned his finger on a match as he lit the gas stove. With coffee going, he spied the Sugarfield Sugar Cookie box on the counter. He raised an eyebrow’s worth of breakfast hope. Unrewarded, he chunked the box, knocking over the trashcan and giving his floor a decorative mosaic of beer cans, banana peels, and coffee grinds. With less hope than he’d held for the box of cookies, he opened the kitchen cabinet. Only two occupants peered back: a dented can of hominy, whatever the heck that was, and a red and blue cardboard cylinder with a picture of a Quaker smiling much too happily at this forsaken hour.
Melvin checked the fridge. A half-eaten lemon-glazed bundt cake sat on the rack below the bottle of spoiled milk. “Winner-winner,” he mumbled. He grabbed a dirty fork out of the sink and gave it a cursory rinse under the faucet, or at least he thought he did—last night’s haze was doing an encore. Sitting at his tiny table, he examined the encrusted remnants on his fork, working to recall what he could’ve eaten that was orange. Shrugging, he wiped it on his BVDs and plunged it into his breakfast, creating a crispier sound than you’d want from a bundt cake. His eyes narrowed as he picked at the green splotches. Melvin muttered something about beggars and choosers and dunked a piece into his coffee to soften.
He chucked the rest into his resurrected trashcan and stood at the window, sipping soggy-crumb coffee and stared at the April morning. 1952 Little Rock stared back.
Melvin glanced at the table. There’d be no birthday cake when he climbed the stairs after work, no one to light candles, no one to sing, no wife to kiss, no young sons to greet him, excited that Daddy was home. He’d had none of those things last year or the year before—not since his arrival.
Freshly showered and in coat and tie, Melvin opened the front door and stepped onto the landing that overlooked the clinic below. He heard patients checking in downstairs, a full day’s work ahead. His gaze turned to the loft door opposite his. A wave of nausea washed over, just as it had every morning since Sally had left. He closed his eyes and inhaled, but after four months, the lingering combination of cigarettes and perfume emanating from her loft had vanished, just as she had.
Melvin rubbed his temples, reliving the shouting match, this woman who’d gone out of her way to make him feel welcome, not just as his clinic receptionist, but as his best friend since landing here in 1950. She’d wanted more from the get-go, but he’d pushed her into the friend zone. Like everyone else in this decade, Sally had no idea Melvin had a wife, two kids, and a laminated Blockbuster card dated 2004.
Secrecy was a solid strategy. Thrust over half a century into the past without friends, family, or cash, the less you revealed, the better. How he’d gotten here, how they’d met, and how he’d been able to practice without a license was a long story, a novel unto itself. None of that mattered today. Today, everything was lost—his family back in 2004, Sally to parts unknown, and recently, his last-ditch effort to travel home had spiraled down the toilet. Nothing to do now but soldier on. Go see patients. Another joyous day of figuring out how to be a 1950’s ophthalmologist without topical antibiotics, steroids, lasers, ultrasound, or anything remotely useful. Head hung low, Melvin descended the black iron spiral staircase, turn by turn, into the circular depths of the inferno. If he’d read Dante back in college instead of putting moves on his girlfriend’s roommate, he’d have gotten the metaphor.
A pot-bellied forty-two-year-old met him with a grin at the bottom. “You look like death warmed over.” He handed Melvin two aspirin and a glass of water.
“Shut up, Ronny.” Melvin downed the pills, followed by the chaser. “Thanks for the cure-alls.” Melvin rubbed his head. “I’d kill for a mocha and Pop-Tart right now, and it’d be justifiable homicide.”
Ronny squinted. “What the heck’s a Pop-Tart?”
“Pure Heaven in tinfoil.”
Ronny shook his head. “Canadians are weird. By the way, happy birthday. How old are you, anyway?”
Melvin shrugged. “Negative 19.” He rubbed his head again. The truth hurt as much as the math.
Ronny’s eyes lit up. “Hey, man, check this out.”
Melvin held up a hand. “Dude, I told you, no more pictures of your dog. Don’t care that your momma knitted you guys matching sweaters.”
Ronny huffed, “That wasn’t it, smart guy.” He half-turned and pushed photos back into his hip pocket. “Check out the dude across the street.”
Melvin closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Leave me alone, man. I’ve got patients to disappoint.”
Ronny smirked. “Yeah, like that’s possible.”
“What do you mean?”
Ronny nodded toward the waiting room. “Way I hear it, your clinic is packed with unmarried socialites dressed to the nines, and they ain’t here for glasses.” Ronny tapped his left ring finger.
“That was all in Sally’s mind. She thought every lady in my clinic had some ulterior motive. Not true.”
“What about the desserts they bring you?”
“It’s the South, dude. People are nice.”
“I’ve seen you with icebox cookies, lemon chiffon pie, cupcakes, tea cakes, brownies. And remember when that Marci girl tried to make you bananas foster here in clinic? Darn near burned the place down. Arkansans are nice, but we ain’t that nice.”
“What’s your point? I’ve got a full day’s work and a massive hangover.”
“My point is, you’ve moped around for the last two years, man. You haven’t been on a single date, except with Sally, and we both know those weren’t date-dates.”
Melvin’s eyes brightened. “Have you heard from her?”
Ronny shook his head. “She’s gone, dude. You need to move on and get out there.”
“Leave me alone.” Melvin turned, but Ronny grabbed his arm and pointed to the window.
“Seriously, check out the guy in the dark green sedan. I swear he was there yesterday, too. And look at the butts below his car. He’s gone through a pack and a half.”
Melvin squinted, recalling his run-ins with the Arkansas Medical Licensing Committee and the Detroit Mafia—one of which gave him grave concern. “Who do you think he is?”
“Dunno, but I don’t like it. I’m going to ask him.”
Melvin planted a hand on his chest. “Hold up. Have you never heard a Jim Croce song?”
Ronny pushed his hand away. “Who?”
“The guy who preaches not to mess with strangers. Let it go. Besides, don’t you have work to do, fitting glasses, convincing customers they look great in overpriced frames?”
“If a doctor I know would prescribe a pair every once in a while, then yeah, I would.”
Around eleven, Melvin pulled a new chart—a work-in. He’d lost count of how many patients he’d seen so far but recalled several offers to brunch, church, and mentions of granddaughters allegedly available this weekend. A freshly baked, lemon-glazed bundt cake now sat in his office. Maybe Ronny had a point.
Melvin knocked as he opened the exam room door and stopped. There was a man in the exam chair. “I’m sorry. Are you here for Dr. Thomas?”
“I’m here for Napier.”
Melvin smiled and shook a scarred, calloused hand. “Then you’re in the right place. What can I do for you?”
The man folded a leg across his lap, wrinkling his worn brown suit, a suit not too flashy and not too cheap, one that could disappear in a crowd, the white Honda Accord of 1950s men’s apparel. “Just a check-up. Worked here long?”
“No, not really.” Seems friendly enough. But there was something off-putting. Melvin noted nicotine stains. Nothing strange about that here. Maybe it was a smell, but after two years in the ‘50s, Melvin was nose blind. “What kind of work do you do, Mister”—he scanned the one-page chart—“John Smith?”
“What’s that got to do with an eye exam?” Smith asked with a thin smile.
Melvin shrugged. “A man’s work affects the body. Body affects the eyes.”
Smith gave a cold, hard stare. “I do a little of this, a little of that. You’ve got a new receptionist.”
“That’s true.” Melvin checked his vision.
Smith’s eyes trained on Melvin’s hands as he reached behind the exam chair and tilted Smith back. Melvin grabbed something from his desk and hovered over Smith. “Just going to give you a little—”
Smith clamped his arm. “What’s that?”
Melvin showed him the bottle. “It’s 4% cocaine. It’ll numb your eye for this test. Trust me, you want it.”
Smith released his grip and settled back into the chair. “A little coke? Sure. If you’ve got leftovers when we’re done, let me know.”
Melvin pulled a shiny silver Schiotz tonometer from a small rectangular box and placed it on each eye, adding tiny weights and jotting the intraocular pressure in Smith’s chart. He tilted Smith up. “15 & 15, not bad.” Melvin scooted on his rolling stool and wheeled the slit lamp table to Smith. “How did you know about the receptionist? Isn’t this your first time here?”
Smith flashed a grin of dentures, a grin not old enough for loss from tooth decay. “Brought my mom here a while back. Your last receptionist was hard to forget. Was she your girl?”
Melvin chuckled. “No. Place your chin in here, please. Thank you. Let your forehead push all the way into the strap. Great. Just look straight ahead.” Melvin fine-tuned the slit lamp with the joystick. When it focused, he shuddered as if stepping out into a cold winter’s day. What stared back was nothing—a dead eye drenched in darkness. The pupil had taken a beating: misshapen, immobile. With no diagnostic lenses in 1952, Melvin stacked trial lenses together to examine the retina. His slit beam illuminated inside Smith’s eye but couldn’t erase the shadowy ooze pouring through the scope.
Swinging over to the left eye, it confirmed a picture of trauma. How he’d read 20/20 was anyone’s guess. Like the right, the cavern inside Smith’s eye reflected back a bored predator’s soul, an absence mixed with a craving for—something. Melvin pulled away from the slit lamp as quickly as he could.
“Any idea where she ended up?” Smith asked, leaning back.
“Who?” Melvin placed one hand on top of the other to hide the shaking.
“Your receptionist, the one who left.”
“Sally?” He blinked a couple of times. “Really couldn’t say.”
Smith’s dead eyes narrowed. “That so? Hard to believe she wasn’t your girl. A man in your position and a girl like that.”
Melvin’s trembling ceased. He leaned back on his stool and folded his arms. “A girl like what?”
Smith shrugged. “Come on, doc, pretty little blonde number with plenty up top? Kind that could rev you up without trying?” He winked. “I like that, and I’m betting you did, too.” He picked at the dirt under his fingernails. “Maybe I ought to look her up. She feisty, doc? Cause I like feisty. Sally, right?” Smith’s dentured grin spread as he watched Melvin’s ears burn red. “Sure she’s not your girl?”
Melvin stood and opened the door. “We’re done here. Don’t think I can help you, Mr. Smith.”
Smith nodded as he walked out. “People do say that. Usually turns out not to be the case. See you around, doctor.”
Melvin trudged his cake upstairs after the last patient of the day. He unlocked his door and paused. Sally’s door looked different. That could only mean . . .
Melvin’s heart raced as he tossed the cake into the fridge for roach protection and zipped to her door. “Sally?” He turned the doorknob. It opened. “Sally?” He stopped. The couch was flipped, cushions strewn, drawers and closet ransacked, and a broken picture frame lay on an ironing board on the living room floor. Melvin found the same treatment in her bedroom: drawers rifled, clothes on the floor, and another empty, broken picture frame. He picked up the phone and put it back down. This wasn’t the Arkansas Medical Licensing Committee.
He straightened her loft, stole a bottle of her bourbon, and returned across the landing. At his table, he poured a drink and stared at it. Bet Smith didn’t find what he was after. Melvin crept downstairs and peeked out the window. No dark green sedan. No smoking man in a brown suit.
Melvin sat on his couch and stared at the bourbon he’d yet to drink. His head jerked toward the sound of a passing car and back to the click of the fridge motor. If he’d felt alone earlier, he didn’t now. Melvin grabbed his keys.
Staying in the streetlamp light and peering into passing alleys, Melvin boogied on down to McKeen’s. Whether well-loved, a terrible alcoholic, or both, Melvin entered to fanfare reserved for Norm at Cheers.
Walter McKeen, owner of the establishment that bore his name, rang the brass bell. “Happy birthday, Melvin! My adopted Canadian son.” He waved a miniature maple leaf flag planted on the register after Melvin performed his cataract surgery two years ago. “Everybody sing,” Walter pointed. “You, too, Eddy.”
Melvin blushed and took his usual barstool. “You didn’t have to do that, Walter.”
“You’re family—at least to us. We sing for family. Whatever you want tonight, it’s on the house.”
Several patrons slapped his back, inquired if everyone’s drinks were free tonight, and left disgusted. Melvin sighed and rotated the beer he hadn’t touched.
Walter nodded. “I miss her, too, son. Sally was like a daughter. And good for business. That girl drank like a fish.” He shook his head. “You should’ve put a ring on that finger. I don’t understand your generation. You kids expect everything on a silver platter.”
“You realize this is 1952, right?”
Walter cut his eyes. “Yeah, yeah—modern times. My generation had to work for everything. And when we found the right girl, we didn’t fool around . . . okay, we fooled around, but then we married—none of this hem-hawing. That girl loved you like crazy. Why didn’t you marry her?”
Melvin closed his eyes. “I had my reasons.”
“I can think of one. You’re a . . . It’s your birthday. I’ll wait till tomorrow to call you an idiot.”
“Much obliged.”
Walter leaned on the bar. “Look, kid, relationships are like beer. You can have one or choose not to. But if you have one and don’t drink it, sooner or later, it goes stale.” He sighed. “Lots of other nice girls out there. Maybe not her, but maybe even better.”
Melvin wiped his nose. “Doubt it. Hey, a guy in a brown suit was asking questions about her today. Anyone like that come in here? Drives a green sedan?”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Questions about my Sally? Who was he? She in some kind of trouble?”
“Wish I knew.”
Walter patted Melvin’s arm. “A while back, you talked about another girl. What was her name . . . Alexis? Maybe she could work out.”
Melvin stared at the beer. “I’ve tried to reach her—every way I know how. It’s never going to happen.”
“Not with that attitude.” Walter pulled an empty tap. “Keg’s dead. Be right back.”
Melvin stood. “I’ll go down after it.”
Walter waved him off. “It’s your birthday. Stay and not drink the beer I gave you. I love it when people come to my bar not to drink.”
Melvin grinned. “You’re the only one working, and these yahoos hit the tap when your back’s turned.”
Walter clutched his chest. “These saints? Say it ain’t so.” He nodded toward the cellar. “You’re a good son.”
Melvin walked down the ramp into the darkness and groped the chain to the hanging bulb overhead. The temperature plunge rippled gooseflesh up his arm. He tipped the keg and slid the handcart underneath. It came down with a thud, followed by another sound—a fainter one, but one too many. Melvin turned to see the light from the hanging bulb gleam off John Smith’s dentured grin.
“Hello, doc. Saw you come in. Was just on my way up to see you.”
Melvin struggled to inhale. “Mr. Smith. How did . . . ? ” He managed a second breath. “What are you . . . ?”
Smith shrugged as if bumping into him at a grocery store. “Need a second opinion.”
Melvin nodded. “Nine-thirty tomorrow?”
Smith’s toothy grin broadened. “I was thinking now.” He pulled a jackknife and motioned Melvin to the far back wall.
Eyes wide, Melvin felt the coolness of the old brick on his back as a bead of sweat slalomed down his vertebrae.
Smith’s expression lightened as he folded and tucked away the knife. “Sorry about that. I’m not here to hurt you. Just needed your full attention. I apologize for razing you earlier about the girl. I wanted a read on you, that’s all. I’m not after her.”
Melvin took a breath. “What do you want?”
“I have to find her father, pronto. I’ve got critical information he needs before… the wrong people get there. Sally’s my only lead. I only hope that wherever she is, he’s there, too. Melvin, I need your help to save them.”
Melvin nodded. Sally’s in danger? I misjudged this guy. Maybe together we can . . . Consciously or not, Melvin’s eyes drifted and locked with Smith’s, still dead, still a void of hopeless boredom. No matter how hard Smith tried, those eyes didn’t match the facial expression he’d slipped on for his intended audience of one.
But Melvin saw more, a familiarity, and he trembled as if hordes of infant spiders crawled up his legs. After two years of waking each day to the task of getting back to his family, and going to bed each night a failure, Melvin had discovered those eyes in his mirror—hope melting, mundaneness spreading, joy no longer found without or within. Albeit an early manifestation of the diseased eyes before him now, his were undoubtedly on the spectrum.
Trusting his soul still had enough breath to blow a second wind, Melvin dug deep. “I wish I could help. Truth is, I barely knew her.”
Smith nodded as if pleased with the response. He reached inside his jacket. Melvin’s eyes widened as Smith pulled out not a pistol but something equally life-threatening.
Melvin held up his hands at the photo from Sally’s living room. “I know how it looks, but that was a company picnic. They asked us to pose together for the photo, that’s all.”
Smith tossed it at him and pulled another. “Found this one in her bedroom. What does that say right there? Dr. and Mrs. Napier?”
Melvin blinked twice. “Granted, that looks bad. It was a joke. Obviously, we’re not married. We went to Eureka Springs one weekend because her grand— ” Melvin’s mouth slammed shut as the dots connected. Sally’s grandparents lived in Eureka Springs. Her parents owned a cabin there. If she was anywhere, that’s where she’d be. He locked eyes with Smith and saw dots connecting there as well.
The cellar’s single hanging lightbulb highlighted Smith’s head as his fake toothy grin crawled out again, the grin of a man who’d gotten what he was after. Now, Melvin noted something new. Smith’s dead eyes had a hint of giddiness, the tiniest spark of life. Whatever they had craved, dinner was about to be served.
Smith pulled a long, double-edged knife from inside his jacket. “Tell me, is Eureka Springs far?”
Melvin swallowed hard and shook his head.
Smith shrugged. “Guess nowadays, nothing’s that far. Everything’s just a phone call away.”
“I won’t say a word.”
Smith nodded. “I know. Ever seen one of these? Called an M3 trench knife.” Smith’s eyes now had a full-on twinkle.
“Ever see one of these?” Walter pushed twin steel barrels into the small of Smith’s back. “Called a scattergun. Others would call it a deus ex machina—whatever that is.”
The cocking of the double hammers echoed around the cellar walls.
Melvin exhaled. “I may not have a knife, Mr. Smith, but I do have family.” Melvin slid around and stood behind Walter.
Smith dropped his knife and stared at the bare wall with his dead eyes and the expression of a man who’d been to this rodeo countless times, a man who knew what to do and how it would play out, the way it always had. The only thing that ever changed was the face of the man on the other end of the gun, an irrelevant variable. Smith knew that face belonged to a man with a moral line in the sand. Veteran? Maybe. But this wasn’t a war, and the man with the gun wasn’t under orders.
This man had likely never shot a man in the back, not an unarmed one, anyway. This man would know that, if he did, he’d have to live with it. Odds were, this man didn’t want to be here. He’d just as soon drop that gun and go have a beer with his loser buddies upstairs if given half a chance. Sure, he’d probably already told himself he’d pull if threatened, if no other choice. But it takes a moment to decide you’re truly in mortal danger and another to convince yourself it’s okay to cross that moral line. But in that time, Smith knew he could spin into the man, pushing the barrel away. The swiftness would surprise the man, causing him to loosen his grip. Taking it would be all the easier.
In less than a breath, experience with an economy of movement would have the gun in Smith’s hands, with no line to cross, no hesitation. Unloading one barrel into the man’s chest, he’d turn the other on the doctor, no doubt fleeing for the cellar door. If both barrels were spent in the struggle, it was just a matter of lifting his right knee to bring an ankle holster into play. His beloved .32 would finish the job. There wouldn’t be the satisfaction of gutting Napier, watching his eyes as he realized he was dying. Smith had salivated over that for the last few hours. But he was a pragmatist and told himself beggars could not be choosers—a prevailing philosophy amongst killers and hungover bundt cake eaters alike.
The drunks upstairs would hear gunshots and be tempted to come see. But the desire for self-preservation would prevent it. Even if they did, Smith would be long gone through the Prohibition tunnel he’d used to slip in. Coming up in Detroit, he’d developed a reputation of getting in or out of anywhere that suited him, a skill that had donned him, The Roach, a name he relished as a point of pride.
He knew all this would come to pass. All The Roach needed was a moment’s hesitation, a moment garnered by reminding the man of the depth of his line in the sand.
The Roach raised his arms halfway. His toothy grin returned.
“Look, pal, you don’t want to shoot an unarmed man in the—”
B-BAM!
Melvin stared at the new mosaic on the old brick wall, the scattergun living up to its name. Walter pushed the lever to break open the shotgun and popped out the smoking shells. He tossed them on the body with no more care than a man tossing an empty box of Sugarfield Sugar Cookies. He turned to Melvin with soft eyes. “Need help with that keg?”
Melvin shook his head with wide eyes. “No, sir. I got it.”
Walter smiled and patted his back. “Good boy.” Shotgun over his shoulder, he headed up the ramp.
“Uh, Walter? What will they say upstairs?”
Walter turned around. “You mean in Heaven? I doubt that guy’s an issue.”
“No, the people in the bar.”
“The drunks?” He smiled. “All regulars tonight. A round on the house, and it’s c’est la vie.”
“But what about”—Melvin pointed—“the . . . you know.”
Walter shook his head. “The missus and I will handle it tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Now, come on, let’s celebrate your special day and talk about finding this Alexis.”
Melvin pushed the handcart to the ramp and grabbed the chain to the light. Before pulling, he glanced back at the remains of The Roach. “That guy would’ve . . . Wow.” He pushed up the ramp. “Happy birthday to me.”
Dr. Wiggins is an ophthalmologist currently residing in Florida where he serves as a glaucoma specialist with the Department of Veterans Affairs and is a Courtesy Professor of Ophthalmology at the University of Florida. He has previously worked at the Jones Eye Institute as an Associate Professor of Ophthalmology and was the founding Editor-in-Chief of the Journal or Ophthalmic Medical Technology during his time as Medical Director of the OMT program. This story is written as a day in the life of Dr. Melvin Napier, a character from the author’s recent novel, Letters of the Arkansas Traveler (Davis Street Publishing 2023: davisstreetpublishing.com), which is about a modern ophthalmologist trapped in 1950s Little Rock. He is a member of the Author’s Guild and of Pegasus Physician Writers of Stanford. His other novels are The Sugarfield Sugar Cookie: Sweet Southern Drama and Magical Arkansas Tales (Children’s short stories) both published by Davis Street Publishing in 2022. He is also the author of textbooks for ophthalmology including Clinical Optics Made Easy: The Fabled Second edition (Davis Street Publishing 2023) and Clinical Optics Made Easy (Crimson House Publishing, 2018).