The Last Clinic by Gary Gusick Page B

enlightening me,” said Darla.
    “Just think about what I said,” the nurse said, and then added, “please.”
    Darla gave her a card.
    “This has my cell number on it, if you can think of anything else you want to tell me. Also, you should know, I’m posting a guard out in front of the clinic so you won’t have anything in that area to concern yourself with. An officer should be here soon.”
    The nurse left, still looking agitated. It was the kind of reaction Darla was used to. People were always annoyed at the police because they didn’t let everybody know everything that was on their mind.
    A minute later, Dr. Nicoletti appeared at the door, nodding at her, indicating she was next. Darla rose to greet him. She let her eyes drift up, taking in his features, finally meeting his blue eyes looking down at her. He held her look longer than normal, like someone looking a painting, trying to decipher the artist’s intent.
    “Darla Cavannah, from the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department.” She didn’t give her title or show him the badge.
    He cocked his head and studied her for another ten seconds without speaking and then smiled as though something amused him.
    He offered his hand, and she took it. It was a large hand, muscular, but somehow soft and smooth in a way that made Darla want to run her fingers across his palm.
    She took her card out of her purse and handed it to him.
    “You can keep it” she said and immediately felt awkward.
    He took the card and slipped it into his breast pocket, the movement relaxed and graceful.
    “ The Little Rascals,” he said. “Your name. I used to see the reruns on television growing up in Italy, with subtitles. It was so long ago. The beautiful little dark-haired girl. Darla was her name. Alfalfa was in love with her. So were all my friends. Me too.” He offered a smile that could be interpreted a number of ways.
    There’s a first , she thought. It was her last name, Cavannah, which people usually commented on when they met her. “Cavannah. As in Hugh Cavannah?” “You Hugh’s wife?” “Ole Hugh the Glue?” She remembered how they’d start talking about Hugh’s football career. How proud as Mississippians they were of him. The times they had seen him play, a relative who knew him, a big play he had made, or the commercials on television for his family’s appliance business. The fans always spoke with an affection that suggested they were close friends with her husband. Darla knew most of them had never met Hugh, or if they had, it was just a handshake and some polite chitchat. She remembered that Hugh was good with small talk, much better than she.
    “ The Little Rascals was my mother’s favorite show,” she said. “There wasn’t really that much of a resemblance. My mother just liked the name Darla.”
    She thought of her mother, years earlier, the two of them sitting on the sofa, watching the reruns of The Little Rascals and giggling together.
    “Me? I’m afraid I resembled the chubby fellow. What was his name?”
    “Spanky,” she said, “Spanky McFarland,” and let it go without commenting on how un-Spanky-like Doctor Nicoletti looked all grown up.
    She thought of other Italian men she had met and how each of them had gone out of his way to charm her. Even the South Philly guidos were always with the compliments. It was their nature to charm women. She knew the game would continue with Dr. Nicoletti until she acknowledged his efforts, let him know that he’d gotten to her. She let the woman in her smile at him, a little laugh attached to the smile. Then she let him watch while she sunned herself in his flattery.
    He bowed his head, just slightly, like a nobleman and seemed ready to move on to more serious matters. He motioned that she should be seated on the couch and waited for her to get comfortable. Then he took a seat at the opposite end, a respectful distance.
    “You are here about Reverend Jimmy.” He leaned forward, his forearms resting on