CHAPTER TEN Benedict

I hated to admit that I felt accomplished at the end of the day. After years of training and accompanying those who were already attending physicians, I was finally an attending physician myself. The difference now was that people looked only to me for their health advice and my plan was the final and accepted opinion. They wanted me to make the decisions regarding their wellbeing, and I liked the responsibility of doing that.

Being the only doctor in a small town was different than most doctor's paths, but my decision had technically been made for me. I'd made the promise and was now forced to deliver on that agreement. Needing a monthly stipend from a large trust fund also forced the issue, but I'd get through a year and then I'd be scot-free to do whatever I wanted with a fat new salary.

I can't tell you how many times I'd heard speeches about underserved markets, rural areas, and the dire need for doctors in those places. But truthfully, Bumfuck, USA, was not on my list of places to practice medicine at. After my prison term here in Plentywood, the single stupidest name for a town, I'd be back in New York or Los Angeles, so I could get back to my people.

There was one good thing about practicing for a year here, and that would be the cross-section of patients: all ages, all illnesses. There would be many opportunities to put into practice what years of training had taught me. From colds and flu to broken limbs and heart disease. I'd see and treat them all.

As much as I hated to admit it, the nurse at the clinic was talented. Was she crass? Was she tactless? Did she talk like a trucker? Was she as old as the building? Yes, she was all those things, but she knew her stuff and was as efficient a nurse as I had ever encountered.

Agnes Brewster. The name fit. According to her, she wasn't used to asking permission. Her attitude was that it was better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask permission upfront.

"Women weren't allowed to be doctors back in my day, or I would've been," she'd defended. "Basically, I'm one already."

"You'll still need to seek my advice, Agnes," I'd reminded her.

She shook her head and glared at me. "I've trained more doctors than you graduated with, punk. You all come in here with your fancy pedigrees and then watch me dance circles around your stiff asses."

She wasn't wrong. Experience was her degree. An amazing thing about her, that I had zero plans of admitting to her, was that she was clearly up on current treatments. I noticed during her lunch break, which she informed me she was inflexible about and would be taken exactly at the same time every day, that she studied the medical journals that came in the mail monthly.

Serving alongside her was like having an additional doctor in the practice. After my speech about prescriptions, she began to dump her patient files on my desk for review. Each file was meticulous in its notes, and if prescriptions were needed, she held the paper under my nose while I made the decision. Was she bitchy about it? Of course she was.

"You ain't half bad, pipsqueak," she said, hanging her smock on a hook at the end of the day. "I didn't have high hopes for a pretty boy like you, but I ain't stubborn. You're actually decent."

"And you're efficient, Agnes."

She placed her hands on her hips and glared in my direction. "Efficient?" she asked. "Who the fuck uses words like that? How old are you, son?"

"Asking a fellow employee their age is unprofessional," I stated, turning back to the file I was reviewing for my end-of-day notes. "And swearing is unprofessional as well."

"That is unprofessional," she snarked, apparently trying to imitate me.

"I would never ask you your age, Nurse Agnes."

"I'm seventy-four!" she declared. "Should've retired years ago, but then what would I fucking do? I outlived my old man and my one daughter is a drunk. Her kid, my grandson, I practically raised him. I hate most people and only suffer through interaction with folks to be courteous," she explained, pretty much giving me a life update and history lesson in one shot.

"You call what you do being courteous?" I asked, closing the file and returning her glare. "I'd hate to see you being unpleasant."

"Yeah," she agreed. "You wouldn't want to see that."

"You did well today, nurse."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, pointing in my direction. "Right there," she stated, wiggling her index finger. You said ‘ well ,' not ‘ good ,' like most humans would say. Must be that Ivy League schoolin'."

"I think it's called getting an education," I corrected.

"Shit!" she exclaimed. "I almost wanted to like you."

"There's always tomorrow," I replied.

"Speaking of that," she began, still wiggling her arthritic finger in my direction. "My grandson Charlie will be in tomorrow for his physical. He doesn't let me do them because he claims he's modest, which he ain't."

"He's an adult male. I can understand that request."

"I've seen his bits since he was a diaper-filling baby. He ain't got nothin' I ain't never seen."

"You're his grandmother," I reminded her. "It sounds creepy."

"Fuck that!" she exclaimed, frowning. "So, anyway, about Charlie. He'll try to charm your pants off. Maybe even wave his pecker at you, but do not succumb to his charms. He is a loser of the first order and not worth your time. Got it?"

My eyes saucered at her description of her grandson. I'd met Charlie, or Skeeter, whatever his cornpone name was, and he was very attractive indeed. But I didn't do cowboy, surfer-boy types. And how had he adopted a surfer vibe in Montana to begin with?

"I will not be involving myself in small-town romances while I'm here for my very short stay, nurse." I began. "And certainly not with the grandson of an employee."

Agnes laughed out loud, stopping before exiting the exam room's office. She leaned into the door frame and studied me, shaking her head as a grin began to take shape.

"Did you see the line here today?" she asked. "Did you notice all the womenfolk in makeup and a gay sheriff all up in here sniffing around your pretty little ass? Did you notice any of that, pretty boy?"

"You are crude," I replied. "Where did you learn that manner of speaking?"

Agnes rolled her eyes. "Screw that!" she stated. "Whatever. Half the fucking town came in today to see the poster boy from the newspaper. You have matinee idol looks, buddy boy, and this town is horny for a boy like you. So, good luck with the pious ‘ I'm not romancing anyone ' bullshit."

"I'm not," I defended. "I plan to keep to myself and you can spread that word around town if you like."

Her lips pursed, matching her scrunched-up eyes like she thought I was full of it. "We'll see about that. And as for Charlie tomorrow. Don't fall for his bullshit. He'll rip your heart out. Your best bet is the sheriff," she stated. "His husband dropped dead a couple years back. Nice young man, and he needs some love back in his life. Go for that one."

"Are you done?"

"Trust me on this, kiddo. Plentywood will get under your skin. Make the right choice about your partner early on so you can save yourself the grief later," she explained.

"Who said I was gay?" I asked.

"No one," she answered. "There was no need to announce in the paper what's so goddamned obvious," she added, walking out the door.

"Obvious?" I whispered, my question dying in the room after she'd departed.

And what did she mean about Plentywood getting under your skin? This town? In the middle of nowhere? Not me. I had bigger plans for my life.