Sitting comfortably on a dental chair with a magazine, nothing makes me fearful, not the

bright light, the water running in the spit bowl, or the sharp and shiny instruments on the paper-

lined tray. A drill hangs by its cable, quiet and nonthreatening.

There’s a reason for my coolness in this environment: I’m not a patient. I’m the dentist.

Dr. Erica Fulton, DDS.

If anything makes me nervous right now, it is looking at the calendar on the light green

wall and realizing that the end of the month is near, and so is the time to pay the bills.

There’s a reel-to-reel machine in my office, playing the album Aura by Miles Davis. His

dad was also a dentist. The song is Red. The snare sounds like it’s going up a flight of stairs

while the trumpet flies around effortlessly, a butterfly making fun of the drum’s effort to ascend.

I think about doctors who were successful for reasons other than curing people: Mark Spitz, Paul Revere, Arthur Conan Doyle.

Now Vince Wilburn, Jr.’s drums compete with the noisy northbound “L” rushing below

my windows. I stand up and walk to the desk in the waiting room. Patty is no longer here— I had

to let her go — and the appointment book is as empty as the chairs and the files; they swing

freely as I open the cabinet drawer to retrieve the bottle of Old Smuggler. It’s my favorite

because the name gives it a unique flavor. I pull out a little plastic cup — the kind you provide

patients with mouthwash — from the closet where Patty kept supplies, fill it up with scotch,

1knock it back, have another shot. Rosa calls:

“Are you busy right now?”

“A bit. Let me call you later,” I say. Rosa is one of my best friends. We’ve known each

other since third grade; why can’t I be honest with her? I guess I’m just ashamed of myself.

And back to the dental chair, but just as I start reading an article about Princess Diana’s

dresses going up for auction, the doorbell rings. I stuff my mouth with mints, turn off the reel to

reel, and open the door.

If it happens to be an old patient, that could be good or bad. Good if they bring a new

problem. Bad if it’s an old problem poorly solved, and they expect a fee repair. But it’s not one of

my old patients; it’s a somber middle-aged man dressed in worn-out formal black clothes with

bloodshot eyes and pale skin. He seems so weak he can hardly stand without leaning on the door

frame. His hands tremble slightly, as does his voice.

“Dr. Fulton?” he says.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“My tooth…”

I tell him to sit down and wait a minute or two. I rush into my office, clear the magazines

and a box of tissues from the chair, turn on the light, step on the drill pedal to ensure it’s still

working, and wipe the dusty tools.

“Next!” I say from the door — an inside joke.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Once he settles into the chair, I place a bib under his chin and ask him to open his mouth.

3The smell is terrible. I turn my back to him and smear some tiger balm under my nose. Then I

offer him a cup with mouthwash for good measure.

I ask who referred him to me, to make conversation. He says nobody did; he saw the sign

outside the building and walked in. He was unsure, but when the elevator stopped, he heard the

music coming from my unit and felt encouraged. I told him that, luckily, someone had canceled,

so I could see him right away.

The man says his name is Andrei, and he is glad I can see him because he’d been

suffering horribly with a pain so sharp he hadn’t eaten for days. I think he has an accent, but it

could be just the pain making it difficult for him to speak.

“Which one hurts?” I ask, and he points to me one of his unusually long canine teeth, the

left one. A quick look with the little round mirror and I see where the pain comes from: the inside

of the tooth is rotten to the gum. I will have to excavate it with the drill until all the rot is gone

and check under the gum to see if the root has been affected. He seems to enjoy the stings of the

anesthetic injections.

Once the filling is in place—there is no need for root canal work—he gets up and pays me with cash; the bills are dirty and moist. I offer a business card in case he needs to call me. He takes it and staggers to the door without saying a word.

Before going home, I stop at Miller’s pub for a steak dinner with Andrei’s yucky money. There’s even enough for two Martinis. The following day, a police car and an ambulance are in front of my office building on Wabash and Monroe.

As I go in, an agent stops me.

“Sorry, lady, I’m Inspector Jim Corbett with CPD. Can I ask you a few questions?” he

says.

“Hurry up. My next patient will be here in 8 minutes,” I say.

“It’ll only take a moment, doc,” he says, “At what time did you leave the building yesterday? To go home, I mean.”

“Around 6,” I say.

He points to the nearest corner: “A man was killed there last night, between 6 and 7.”

The inspector shows me the photo of a dead man lying on the sidewalk.

“

Never seen him,” I say.

“

Anything strange called your attention when you left?”

“No.”

“Being a doctor, you must see dead people all the time, right?”

“Not really; I’m a dentist. Listen, I need to go now. I’m on the eighth floor if you need

me, Erica Fulton.”

“I know,” he says and joins a group of police officers across the street. What does he mean by saying he knows who I am?

Later, he shows up in my office.

“I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” he says.

I look at the clock on the wall and say, “Go ahead, but I got a patient coming any minute

now.

“May I?” he says, sitting on one of the waiting room chairs. I sit next to him. I’m actually

glad he came; spending day after day alone in an empty office can drive anyone crazy. And he

isn’t at all bad-looking. Tall, silky dark skin, curly hair, well-groomed nails, square face, nice dark grey suit, white shirt, no tie.

“We have a witness,” he says, “Someone was looking out their window. They saw a man

come out of this building, walk to the corner, and hang out until another man walked by. There

was a fight, and the victim was left dead where we found him. Your card was next to him.”

I must look surprised; he speaks fast, apologetically:

“I’m not saying you’re a suspect.”

The doorbell rings.

“My patient’s here,” I say. He stands up and follows me to the door. It’s Tito, the UPS

guy, with a small box. It's probably the night cream I’d ordered.

“Phew, finally…” I say, “I was almost out of composite.”

I close the door. “You were saying…” I say to the inspector.

“You are not a suspect.”

“Right. Inspector, if you don’t mind me asking, was the dead man drained of blood?”

“How do you know?”

“I think I might know who did this.”

I have him sit down again and make us some coffee. I take the Old Smuggler out of the

cabinet and point the bottle to his cup. He smiles and nods.

“My favorite brand,” he says. I like him more and more.

I tell him the whole story, from when the mysterious patient walked in until he left. I try

to describe Andrei as best as possible—his clothes, teeth, and accent. I don’t want to sound

ridiculous, but the conclusion is clear.

“Long canine teeth?” Jim says.

“Very long. Like a — you know…”

“A vampire?”

“I’m not sure these things exist, but what can I say?”

“The victim did have perforations on his neck.”

I feel a chill and grateful at the same time. For some reason, Andrei spared me and waited

to satisfy his need for blood until he was out on the street.

“I’ll be calling you soon, or you call me if anything comes up,” Jim says, giving me a

card with his number.

I offer him more coffee, but he declines and leaves with a smile.