you give it a rest?"
"I just think you should take better care of yourself."
"I appreciate that. But ever since you went out and decided to take care of your body and Margaret went out and married Dr. Strangelove, I can't go into either of your offices without getting a lecture about something. I'm afraid to open my mouth around either of you."
"He's not a doctor."
"Who?"
"Margaret's husband. Garrick. He's a psychologist, not a psychiatrist."
"I know that. It's just a nickname."
"Not a very flattering one. I gather you don't like him."
"I like him fine. I just find him a little uptight. Officious."
"Officious..."
"Inflexible. A real rule-maker."
Phil swiveled in his chair and rested his wingtips on the radiator. There was snow on the mountains across the lake.
"You know," Phil said, pressing the fingertips on both hands together. "There are those who would say the same thing about you."
"About me?"
"Absolutely. Leland Fowler, they'd say, shits in rows."
"Nice, Phil." Ever since Phil had discovered natural health, he'd become, in my opinion, way too comfortable with feces.
"See what I mean? You are an extremely uptight fellow. Probably even more uptight than Garrick."
"That's not possible."
"He's on the state board, you know."
"The psychology board?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Most people think it's a great honor."
"I'm sure."
He turned back toward me. "Sometimes I think you're a very angry person."
"Margaret's supposed to be telling me that. You're just supposed to criticize my eating habits."
"See? You put everything into these little tiny boxes. Your life is too compartmentalized. Don't get me wrong: It's clear you're doing a great job with Abby. And you do very, very good work here. But you're still incredibly anal."
Someday, I decided, I would find out who had set Phil and Barbara Hood on the road to better health. And then I'd kill him. I realized I'd been in Phil's office for close to half an hour and we still hadn't gotten to the litany of cases I needed to discuss. And now I was due in court to explain why some asshole--now, there was a colorful word I'd be sure to use around Phil the next time we had a chat--who'd blown 2.0 when he was picked up going the wrong way on I-89 shouldn't be allowed near the keys to his car ever again.
"I'll work on that."
"Oh, I know you won't. At least not yet. Sometimes it's hard to change."
I considered informing Phil that I'd actually gone to see a homeopath, but telling him now would sound defensive. Besides, I couldn't bear to give him that much satisfaction; I couldn't imagine giving him the notion that Leland Fowler was now among the converted. He might think he had had something to do with it.
"I have to run, Phil, I'm due in court. Will you be around later this morning?"
"I expect so."
"Can we connect then?"
"Good chance."
When I went to my office to get the files I needed on Derek Linder, the DWI King of Vermont, I saw a message from Carissa Lake. With any luck, Linder wouldn't keep me more than half an hour. For all I knew, I might have my remedy in forty-five minutes.
Take that, Phil Hood, I thought. I've got myself a homey.
I stopped by the coffee machine on my way back to my office. Most of the time I loved the fact that the state's attorneys worked in the same building with the state courtrooms, but there were occasional moments when I wished I had an excuse to escape the second and third floors of the illustrious Edward J. Costello Courthouse. I would have loved to have been flirting with Carissa Lake while sipping a decent cup of coffee, for example. Instead I was drinking the paludal muck someone had brewed in our office two or three hours ago. Maybe longer. I wondered if I'd have to confess to my homeopath that I'd gone back on the juice.
"How are you feeling?" she asked me. "Still emotionally wrung out?"
"A little less so."
"Good. I have some news for you."
"You have my remedy?"
"I do."
"I've been dying to know. What
"I just think you should take better care of yourself."
"I appreciate that. But ever since you went out and decided to take care of your body and Margaret went out and married Dr. Strangelove, I can't go into either of your offices without getting a lecture about something. I'm afraid to open my mouth around either of you."
"He's not a doctor."
"Who?"
"Margaret's husband. Garrick. He's a psychologist, not a psychiatrist."
"I know that. It's just a nickname."
"Not a very flattering one. I gather you don't like him."
"I like him fine. I just find him a little uptight. Officious."
"Officious..."
"Inflexible. A real rule-maker."
Phil swiveled in his chair and rested his wingtips on the radiator. There was snow on the mountains across the lake.
"You know," Phil said, pressing the fingertips on both hands together. "There are those who would say the same thing about you."
"About me?"
"Absolutely. Leland Fowler, they'd say, shits in rows."
"Nice, Phil." Ever since Phil had discovered natural health, he'd become, in my opinion, way too comfortable with feces.
"See what I mean? You are an extremely uptight fellow. Probably even more uptight than Garrick."
"That's not possible."
"He's on the state board, you know."
"The psychology board?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Most people think it's a great honor."
"I'm sure."
He turned back toward me. "Sometimes I think you're a very angry person."
"Margaret's supposed to be telling me that. You're just supposed to criticize my eating habits."
"See? You put everything into these little tiny boxes. Your life is too compartmentalized. Don't get me wrong: It's clear you're doing a great job with Abby. And you do very, very good work here. But you're still incredibly anal."
Someday, I decided, I would find out who had set Phil and Barbara Hood on the road to better health. And then I'd kill him. I realized I'd been in Phil's office for close to half an hour and we still hadn't gotten to the litany of cases I needed to discuss. And now I was due in court to explain why some asshole--now, there was a colorful word I'd be sure to use around Phil the next time we had a chat--who'd blown 2.0 when he was picked up going the wrong way on I-89 shouldn't be allowed near the keys to his car ever again.
"I'll work on that."
"Oh, I know you won't. At least not yet. Sometimes it's hard to change."
I considered informing Phil that I'd actually gone to see a homeopath, but telling him now would sound defensive. Besides, I couldn't bear to give him that much satisfaction; I couldn't imagine giving him the notion that Leland Fowler was now among the converted. He might think he had had something to do with it.
"I have to run, Phil, I'm due in court. Will you be around later this morning?"
"I expect so."
"Can we connect then?"
"Good chance."
When I went to my office to get the files I needed on Derek Linder, the DWI King of Vermont, I saw a message from Carissa Lake. With any luck, Linder wouldn't keep me more than half an hour. For all I knew, I might have my remedy in forty-five minutes.
Take that, Phil Hood, I thought. I've got myself a homey.
I stopped by the coffee machine on my way back to my office. Most of the time I loved the fact that the state's attorneys worked in the same building with the state courtrooms, but there were occasional moments when I wished I had an excuse to escape the second and third floors of the illustrious Edward J. Costello Courthouse. I would have loved to have been flirting with Carissa Lake while sipping a decent cup of coffee, for example. Instead I was drinking the paludal muck someone had brewed in our office two or three hours ago. Maybe longer. I wondered if I'd have to confess to my homeopath that I'd gone back on the juice.
"How are you feeling?" she asked me. "Still emotionally wrung out?"
"A little less so."
"Good. I have some news for you."
"You have my remedy?"
"I do."
"I've been dying to know. What
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