The Misremembered Man Read Online Free Page A

he saw her black patent toes and thick ankles come into view. He squinted up and met eyes that glared above a pair of half-moon spectacles.
    “Dr. Brewster Will See You Now.” She amplified each word and bent unnecessarily low toward his left ear as if addressing a child, a senior citizen—or, indeed, an idiot.
    “Right ho, Miss Mulligan, right ho.”
    He rolled the paper into a thick baton and stuck it into his jacket pocket before shuffling into the doctor’s office.
    Dr. Humphrey Brewster, a large man with bluish jowls and the eyes of a Clumber spaniel, did not look up when the door opened, but continued to scribble in his notebook. Jamie sat down in the vacant chair, put his hands on his knees and studied the doctor’s bald crown as he waited.
    He experienced a sensation similar to that which usually gripped him when he waited at the confessional grille, rehearsing his oft-repeated list of sins, a list that rarely varied from one month to the next. It was a feeling of foreboding that would make him want to bolt out of the box as Father Brannigan, bored listening to the same rigmarole and eager to get home to his slippers and supper of boxty and beef stewed in Guinness, called a halt to the penitential mumbling on the other side. Jamie wondered now about all sorts of cancerous warts and tumors, as he considered the sparse scattering of hair on the doctor’s poll, and waited for the “grille” to slide back and the doctor to meet his eye.
    Presently, the dreaded moment arrived; the scratching fountain pen was capped and the glasses removed. Dr. Brewster sat back in his leather swivel chair and laced his fingers across his pullover-ed paunch.
    “So, James, what can I do for you this morning?”
    “Well, you see, doctor, I’ve had this back for a while now. Can’t seem to get rid of it.”
    “Where exactly is the pain?”
    “Ehh, in me back, doctor.”
    “Yes, I know that! But could you be more specific?” The doctor replaced his glasses and canted forward. “Where exactly…upper, lower, middle?”
    “Oh, aye, now I’m with you. The lower bit; aye, the lower bit. Gets me in the morning something fearful. ’Deed begod, there are times when I can hardly get outta the bed atall, atall.”
    “Quite so. Worse in the morning then, is it?”
    “Oh…far worse.”
    Dr. Brewster, slightly hung over, dyspeptic, and weary of listening to the grunts and groans of the culchies and bogmen of Tailorstown, studied Jamie, saw a man who drank like a sea trout and smoked like a stovepipe, and decided, against his better judgment, not to rise and exert himself with any kind of invasive prodding.
    “Sounds as if you have a touch of lumbago,” he said, reaching for his prescription pad and pen. “Nothing to worry about.”
    “Lamb what, doctor?”
    “ Lum , James, lum bago. Comes from lifting heavy objects and lack of exercise.” He narrowed his eyes in an accusatory manner. “Which I can see, with the farm and your lifestyle, probably fits the bill.”
    He began to write. “Any stiffness in the buttocks or genital area?”
    “In the…in the where, doctor?”
    “Backside, private parts, man.” The doctor indicated Jamie’s groin with a few swift circular motions of his pen.
    “Oh, down there. Naw, never any stiffness there…not that I know of anyway,” he added thoughtfully.
    The doctor considered him over the rims of his glasses. “Yes, indeed. What age are you now, James?”
    “I was the forty-one this May past, so a was.”
    “Still a young man, James. You should get out more. Take a break at the seaside. Good food, sea air…Do you the world of good.”
    “But who would look after things? Y’know I can’t leave the cows and the hay and stuff.”
    “Nonsense! Doesn’t Paddy McFadden live down the road? Paddy’s a very obliging sort…. Portaluce, that’s the place.”
    Dr. Brewster wrote extravagantly in his pad, his great chins quivering with the effort. “Still taking the Valium, I