Page 116 of Doctorshipped
Cooter’s standing on the porch with a casserole dish. Jayme steps up behind me.
“Oh, heya, Doc. Heya, Jayme. I just had to stop by fer a minute here to thank yuh fer helpin’ me when I was on fire.”
Jayme’s eyebrow raises, a half-smirk on her lips. I don’t discuss cases with her unless she and the whole town knows what’s up, which they usually do, but even then I have to keep patient confidentiality, which is more of a challenge than I’d have imagined in this small of a town.
“Yes, siree. You were there fer me in my time uh need. So, I figured I’d bake up my specialty as a way uh sayin’ thanks.”
I eye the casserole dish.
“What do you have there, Cooter?”
“Well, sir, it’s mah specialty, like I told yuh. What'cha got here is bonafide, local, fresh-shot, squirrel stew.”
His face remains jubilant as if he’s presenting roast duck to the queen.
Jayme puffs out a short burst of laughter, which I can tell she’s trying very hard to contain. I clear my throat.
“That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Cooter.”
“If you’uns have clean bowls in there, we could sit a spell and dig in.”
“Oh. Well,” I say, searching for words.
Jayme ducks behind me and lets out a snort. I can feel the vibrations coming off her from suppressed laughter. She’s laughing at me, not Cooter. I’m sure of it.
“You see, Cooter, we just had ice cream, so we’re pretty full.”
Jayme says, “Very full,” from behind me, she braces herself with a hand on my back. She’s laughing that kind of laugh that only comes in situations where you aren’t supposed to be laughing at all. Someone’s funeral. The library. And when Cooter comes calling with bonafide, local, fresh-shot, squirrel stew.
Cooter looks a little deflated that we aren’t going to dig in and share the vittles. And suddenly I’m channeling my inner Beverly Hillbilly.
“Cooter, I appreciate you coming by with this,” I say.
The gesture is nice. Kind of like when a pet brings roadkill to the doormat to honor you as his master. Only, Cooter didn’t bring roadkill. At least, I hope he didn’t. After all, he did say fresh-shot.
“Well, I’ll be straight with ye,” Cooter says.
Maybe he did bring roadkill after all.
“I’ll leave this here with you, but it’s not near as tasty if’n you don’t eat it fresh and hot. Reheatin’ the squirrel makes it a bit chewy.”
He makes a chewing motion with his jaw, only moving his jaw slowly and exaggerating each mastication like he’s trying to gnaw through an invisible old tire. He makes an “arngh, argnh, argnh,” noise for emphasis.
“No sir. What yuh want is the fresh squirrel. ’specially them brains.”
“Mmmm,” Jayme says from her spot behind me.
The short panting breaths of her contained laughter draw out my smile.
“Well, I regret having to pass on eating it now,” I tell Cooter.
“I tell yuh what I’m gonna do fer yuh.”
I inwardly brace myself.
“Once you’uns finish this here stew, I’ll make yuh my other specialty—squirrel and dumplin’s. Tastes just like chicken, only more distinctive-like.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath from Jayme. I’m not a man who usually has a hard time keeping a stiff upper lip, but she’s making me nearly crack up.
