Southern Exposure Ch. 01

This story and subsequent ones in this series are inspired by a long-gone favorite of mine, Northern Exposure. Primarily the focus will be on individual, quirky stories. The category will depend on each individual entry, so Thank Krishna for the story tracker!

"She likes you," Cyrus said, pointing his chin. Shel looked in the direction indicated. Sitting on a bench outside the Quik-Stop was Jennie Mae Pilchard, who'd been Shel's first patient when his office opened two weeks ago. She glanced over at them and smiled..

"That happens a lot," Shel replied. "You always want to put folks at ease, and you're just doing your job, but women especially think you might fancy them, cause you acted so nice. Some doctors act like cold fish just to avoid it, but I could never bear freezing people out."

"Well," Cyrus smiled, "there you go. Deep down, you're a nice guy, Doc."

Shel winced inwardly at the honorific. He knew it was part good-natured teasing, part genuine respect, but he felt like it aged him ten years. Even so, he knew objecting to it wouldn't go over well. This community had wanted a doctor, and he'd agreed to the position in good faith. If it made them feel better to have a 'Doc' to call their own, he wasn't crass enough to kvetch, especially not for the sake of false modesty or his silly ego, wanting to stay young and cool forever. It was a small burden to bear, all things considered.

"OK," he relented, maybe I'm a nice guy, although you wouldn't believe how mean I can get when someone pisses me off–"

"That's all of us, Doc," interrupted Cyrus. "We hired a doctor, not a saint."

"But," Shel continued, "if she's thinking I was thinking of her as anything but a patient, well, I just hope there's a nice way to set her straight."

"Oh, you ain't got to worry about that," Cyrus assured him. "You were a perfect gentleman, even when she was spread out in front of you. She likes a man who doesn't take advantage of a situation when he shouldn't."

"That's what the nurse is there for," said Shel, bristling at the turn the conversation had taken. "She's under strict orders to watch me like a hawk, whenever I'm examining a female patient. If I tried anything–"

"She'd be having as little talk with the sheriff, I know," Cyrus interrupted. "Prob'ly woulda been cheaper to just hire a lady doctor, avoid any allegations and such foolishness, but our ad had to be 'gender-neutral'; the agency wouldn't of run it otherwise."

"Anyhow," Cyrus went on, getting back to the topic whether Shel wanted him to or not, "she likes you, and she ain't thinkin' your secretly in love with her, and she ain't pretendin' you're gonna get married, or any nonsense like that. But it struck me it might be a good opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?" Shel was immediately suspicious, and almost as quickly reprimanded himself for it; it was a habit he'd been trying to kick for a while. If he wasn't careful, he was going to insult this man.

"I'm gonna say some things that might seem outta line, and I hope you'll bear with me, but I gotta explain our situation."

Puzzled, Shel asked, "Yours and...Jennie Mae's?"

Cyrus nodded. "Sort of. I don't know if I mentioned, but she's my cousin."

Shel realized he wasn't surprised. They were about the only redheads in town. It made sense.

Cyrus smiled. "Not exactly ugly, is she?"

"Of course not, Shel murmured, initially more out of politeness than genuine agreement, but in fact she was certainly not ugly. Red hair that had natural waves; pale skin just dusted with freckles (which she assured him she applied sunblock to on every sunny day without fail); an upturned nose that gave an impish tone to an already good-natured smile; breasts that swelled as if they wanted to burst out of her tight-fitting button-up shirt; and bounteous hips and buttocks that her loose, mid-thigh white skirt seemed to dance around happily as if celebrating her obvious fertility. No, ugly was not a word Shel would use to describe her.

Cyrus kept going. "She's got problems, though. Ain't exactly right in the head. Not retarded or nothin' like that, mind. And not crazy, least not in the way of thinking she's a chicken, or the president's an alien, or any such nonsense."

Shel nodded. "So she has a mood disorder, then?"

Cyrus shook his head. "Naw. She gets kinda pissy once a month, but that ain't exactly outside the norm. See, it's like this."

Cyrus's voice dropped about 10 decibels, even though he wasn't exactly shouting before. "Her problem is she can't say no."

Shel was immediately wary. "That sounds like a classic case of fear of rejection. You might want to see if–"

"No," Cyrus interrupted, "it ain't no fear of rejection. No offense, Doc, but this ain't just some armchair diagnosis. We had her looked at by some real bigwigs."

Shel kept listening. He could already tell this was one situation where being a doctor didn't grant him instant authority. He wasn't being asked for his medical opinion.

"We even met with that Sacks fella. Real nice guy. Wanted to write about Jennie Mae, figured he could get it into New Yorker or the Atlantic, but we asked him to sit on it at least a few years, and he said OK."

"And he ain't no spring chicken, so he might never get to write his article. Still, ain't like he don't got enough other stuff he could write about. He'll be all right."

Shel wondered if name-dropping Oliver Sacks was deliberate: See, I know people you don't; therefore, I also know things you don't. He couldn't blame him if it were deliberate; he'd probably been talked down to more than once.

"They're still flying blind on most of this stuff; they figured there must be some connections not going through, where her intentions are formed, they don't carry through to her actions strong enough. Some of the time, anyway.

"One fella guessed she had too many neurons takin' in information, like she couldn't but take in whatever anyone said, like it was the word of God hisownself, but they couldn't see nothing with their scanners and we weren't about to let 'em cut her open, no offense to your profession, Doc."

"None taken," Shel said, sincerely. If this were a medical show, the family's squeamishness about brain surgery would have been an obstacle to be overcome. Given that her condition wasn't imminently life-threatening (as far as anyone knew) Shel agreed with Cyrus: surgery would have been an unnecessary risk.

"But there was also plenty of tests done to see how deep the problem went. And from what they could tell, didn't matter if it was a five-year-old, a teacher, some horny lunkhead, a preacher, or a homeless guy. Once somebody starts giving her orders, she does 'em, as best she can, anyway."

Shel was momentarily stunned. The implications of what he was hearing could be ruinous to anyone's sense of morality. Merely conducting such tests strained the boundaries of ethics. Informed consent was a key element of any psychological study, and how could someone, who couldn't dissent, properly consent?

"I know what you're thinkin', Doc," Cyrus said gravely. "We had problems with the idea of runnin' tests, seein' as how it's basically takin' advantage, even if it was for a good cause."

Cyrus paused, as if to illustrate how much thought had gone into the decision. "But then her ma, she's a clever one, I always said she shoulda gone to college, she said, Well, why don't we just ask Jennie Mae what she wants us to do, and then we'll go by what she tells us. And even though her will ain't much in the resisting department, in the want department, and the speak her mind department, she's got plenty to spare.

"So we asked what she wanted, and she said as long as they didn't ask her to hurt herself, or do nothin' to make her look a fool, she wanted to know how deep it went, same as us. I mean, obviously we don't know if she'd go so far as to pitch herself off a building, and I hope we never find out. But we found out enough.

"It ain't like hypnosis. You can't make her believe nothing that ain't true, least no more'n anyone else. You can't give her orders like, 'At such and such a time,' it's gotta be something she can do right then. And usually, it makes a difference if you're serious. You say something like, Go jump in a lake, and she just gives you a mean look, though if she thinks you're pokin' at her, she'll get real pissed. Mad don't queer it, though. She still has to do what you tell her, even if she grinds her teeth all the way through."

Shel needed time to absorb all this information, but he could also tell when someone was about to ask for his assistance, and he didn't think he'd be granted that day or so he required to fully come to grips with this – to accept that it was even possible, much less sort out how he felt about it all. Even more important, he'd completely forgotten how Cyrus had begun this conversation, or he'd have been close to panicking by now.

"So, um, do I need to take any special precautions when I examine her from now on, or is there some way you think I can help her..." His voice trailed off. He was truly at a loss.

"Aw, hell," Cyrus snorted. "There ain't no point in beatin' around the bush here. I think you two should hook up."

"Hook up?!" Shel spluttered, utterly shocked. "You want me to marry your brain damaged cousin?" As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. "Oh, shit, Cyrus, I shouldn't have put it that way. I –"

"Nope," said Cyrus, cutting him off once again, "it's prob'ly accurate, and Hell, I wouldn't be talking to you about this if..." He gave a sudden start. "You thought I meant marriage?" He shook his head. "Naw, Jennie Mae doesn't want to ever get married. She's been real clear on that."

"Then you're just talking..." Shel was ever more incredulous, "...sex?" There. Now there was no more need for euphemisms or colloquialisms. The dreaded word was out there.

Cyrus nodded. "I know how people talk about Southerners. Especially the more...provincial areas. The small towns and whatnot. There's a few stereotypes we got to endure. First is that we'll fuck anything from chickens to cousins –" He looked at Shel as if to catch his reaction. Shel was careful to keep his expression neutral.

"Second is that we got wives, spinsters, and whores, and there ain't nothin' else for a woman to be. I like to think we're a little more progressive than that around here."

Shel nodded. He suddenly recalled that he'd only noticed one house of worship in his wanderings around the town, a Unitarian Universalist church. Not religious himself, he still was somewhat familiar with the liberal, anti-dogmatic character of that organization, and thought it boded well for the character of the town at the time. He was glad to be proven right.

"Fact is," Cyrus continued, "none of her family wants to have to keep lookin' over her shoulder every time she wants a little male company. Hell, she don't want that. And truth be told, even a live-in boyfriend is more'n she feels like dealin' with. Truth is, she's got no problems when she's by herself, 'cept loneliness and horniness.

"And we want someone who knows how t' keep things to himself. Jennie Mae's real specific on that. She doesn't want nobody callin' her "so-and-so's girlfriend." Sounds too much like ownership, to her way o' thinkin'. So are you startin' t' get the picture?"

This all seemed surreal. Half believing he was dreaming, Shel decided to state his understanding of the matter as boldly as he could manage. If only he could shake off the feeling that he was merely setting himself up to be revealed as a lecherous bastard, inferring lewd connotations from a man's sincere effort to request help for his hapless cousin.

"You want," Shel said, "me to sleep with Jennie Mae, discreetly, primarily to satisfy her sexual needs, and avoid putting her in a situation where she'd possibly be taken advantage of."

Cyrus smiled. "That's a real good way of puttin' it, Doc. Course, we also like to think you'd get somethin' out of this."

At that, Shel bristled. He wasn't a die-hard romantic, but this modern idea of sexual relationships, like business relationships, being cast in terms of benefits, or as Cyrus said, "getting something out of it," rubbed him the wrong way. As suddenly as that, he began to have second thoughts, almost before his first thoughts.

Apparently picking up on this, Cyrus hastened to elaborate. "Look," he said, "this is a small town. We have a rich benefactor, which is why we could afford to pay your schoolin' and pay you a decent salary. But it's still small enough that it's a little too easy for folks to know more about each other's business than they need to. Folks ain't especially nosy here, but they're still people, if you catch my drift."

Shel nodded. He'd only encountered small-town gossip in fiction, but he imagined it could easily be as potent a force as the celebrity gossip that was virtually inescapable in the world he'd come from.

"Now," Cyrus continued, "maybe if we left you to your own devices, you'd just meet a nice girl right quick and settle down, at least for a spell. But maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you like the idea of playing the field, or maybe you're just the type who loses interest real quick in one woman."

Shel felt sweat start to prickle on his forehead. He wondered how thoroughly his school days had been monitored, and knew he might not have many secrets.

"This would be unfortunate," Cyrus stated bluntly. "Ordinarily, when a bachelor puts down here, and it turns out he's kind of a pussy hound, nobody bothers their head about it much. We had a writer stop in here about four years back, nice guy, you prob'ly heard of him. Killed hisself not that long ago." Cyrus shook his head, genuinely regretful.

"Anyhow, it seemed like he was with a different girl every week or two, and even though our women we got here ain't the flashy type, they got something about 'em takes men by surprise. If word was to get out, we'd have a lot more tourists, I'll tell you that. I never heard of a man in Crescendo bein' dissatisfied, or a woman, if she leaned that way. But some people like to rack up the numbers.

"And, sure, people talked. But it ain't the sort of talk where anybody feels somethin' just has to be done, cause nothin' did have to be done. He wasn't mistreatin' any of 'em, or makin' foolish promises. If the women of the town had got together and decided to stop passin' him around, cause, believe me, you don't make time with that many women around here without some kind of acknowledgment happening, well, then he would've just seen the end of his lucky streak, and That would've been the end of it.

"But we simply can't have that in our town's main medical practitioner. You have to appear stable. Not to mention we can't risk a bunch of jealousy and ill feelin' being associated with you. It may not seem strictly fair, but you don't exactly belong to yourself for the next few years.

"This is, even if it looks kinda cold at first glance, an elegant solution, if you'll consider it. A man has needs and even if you want more eventually, you'd be amazed how just gettin' a little every couple of days can set your head straight." Cyrus chuckled. "It's when you let it bottle up that you start thinkin' it should be more than it is. When what you need is to be happy with what's right there.

"Sure, eventually people will wonder how our fine young doctor spends his nights, and at some point, folks will guess you're gettin' some on the sly. They might even guess who it is.

"But by then, hopefully, you'll be a part of the community, enough so that folks will value you, and respect your discretion. People might talk, but they won't pester you for details, or her, and if you do get tired of each other, well, you can just keep that quiet, too."

Shel was dumbfounded. "You – you have this all worked out in your head, but there's no guarantee this will work out, even for a few weeks. We may not even have one good night." Especially with all this pressure.

Cyrus nodded. "Well, all I can ask is that you give it a try. I know it's kinda unorthodox, but you're gonna find there's a lot different about this town, and I think you're gonna find that ain't such a bad thing. I'm askin' you to try somethin' different, and I think you got it in you to try somethin' different. You game?"

*****

Shel guessed that this meeting, as Cyrus insisted on calling it, was, in some respects, a date. Certainly at least some of the preparation a normal date called for was appropriate here, as well.

But then, he was usually pretty well groomed, deliberately so. He shaved daily, though it had taken him forever to find a brand that both cut close enough and yet didn't irritate his face. For best effect, he could only use any one razor no more than twice in a row, which meant going through a lot in a month. His father had sworn by straight razors, but Shel couldn't abide them; they reminded him of scalpels, and he wanted them nowhere near his face, which he was admittedly somewhat vain about.

He wasn't in the habit of getting manicures, but all the same, he spent some time every day making sure his nails were presentable, using a fingernail brush when he showered in the morning, keeping them closely trimmed, even occasionally taking the trouble to push back a cuticle. As far as he was concerned, this was just due diligence; patients noticed these things.

But for a date, there were subtle differences. One's cologne, for instance. It needed to be just a tiny bit stronger, and much less antiseptic in tone. For mouthwash, mint was a must. And lastly he never neglected his feet. At least a mild wash, preferably with a little boric acid, always cleaning between the toes, a good drying off, a proper dusting with a good foot powder and a fresh, clean pair of socks. It wasn't something he bragged about, but he'd be damned if he ever let a seduction get derailed by foot odor. It just couldn't be borne.

So the next question was: what should he wear? Obviously formal wear would be over the top, but it went against his grain to dress too casually on a first date. But if not dressing up to suit the occasion was a serious faux pas, outdressing your date was closer to a criminal offense.

In his previous circles, it was standard practice for the woman to let the man know what sartorial level to aim for. Shorts and jeans you matched, sundresses could be jeans or slacks, blouse/skirt was slacks and maybe a casual tie, and a full-on dress always rated a collared shirt, a tie, and dress slacks. He'd gotten no such indicator from Cyrus, just the date and time he was to show up, discreetly, at Jennie Mae's place.

So, compromise. Jeans (of course immaculately clean and pressed; casual maybe, slovenly never), short-sleeve collared shirt, worn untucked with a black t-shirt underneath, black shoes, walkers not dress, and underneath it all, black silk boxers. He hated the lack of support, but he couldn't stand the way he looked in briefs. They made his genitals so...obvious. He always felt like he was waiting for a medical exam.

Then there was the ride over. Normally, he would have tried to park a few blocks from the house, for discretion's sake. But the Pilchards all lived in a series of cabins off of a private dirt road which connected to Highway 9. Jennie Mae's cabin was about a mile in, and so the only folks liable to see Shel's car were her own kin. So it made more sense for Shel to drive right up to the building.

So Shel proceeded to make his cautious way down an unlit, shoulderless road at 9 p.m. with only his headlights to guide him. There were no porch lights, no signs, not even arrows indicating where the path took a sharp turn.