Chapter 21 Outlaw
Dr. Chokshi was not looking forward to the next patient. The man was sitting in the reception area between Logan Walsh and Sheriff Bradley, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. He’d need stitches, which meant they’d soon be spending some quality time together. When he’d moved to Troy eighteen months earlier, the doctor had never anticipated he’d find himself treating an injured international movie star.
The doctor added that to the long list of things he’d experienced in Georgia that he’d never expected. He’d been shocked by just how different a homegrown peach could taste. Delighted by the old lady who paid him in produce and insisted on making him his first tomato and mayonnaise sandwich. After that, he’d eaten one every day and mourned for weeks when tomato season came to an end. He’d been touched by how thoughtful people could be, inviting him to their homes, churches, and cookouts—and introducing him to their local cuisine, one remarkable dish at a time. Brunswick stew—always with peas—hoecakes, succotash, and an astounding amount of fried chicken.
Then there had been the less pleasant bombshells. Like being called a terrorist in the Walmart parking lot by the douchebag motherfucker sitting to the right of Mitch Sweeney.
Dr. Chokshi waited until his previous patient was out the door. Then he stepped into the reception area.
“Mr. Walsh, you have no business here. Please wait outside until I’ve finished.”
“Why?” Walsh shot back.
“I’m not stitching anyone up till he’s gone,” Dr. Chokshi told the sheriff. “You want to sit here all night?”
“Son, just do it,” the sheriff told Walsh. He’d clearly had enough.
“Come on in, Mr. Sweeney.” Dr. Chokshi held the door open.
Once, while kayaking in Alaska, he’d encountered an orca. It swam beside him for a second or two, but that was long enough to be humbled by its size. He was reminded of the experience as Mitch marched into the exam room. He’d seen the man in a dozen movies. On-screen, he was an imposing presence. In person, Mitch was fucking enormous. The doctor almost considered leaving the door open. He didn’t relish the thought of being alone with a giant who’d just knocked a prom queen cold and traveled with a Nazi escort. But he took a deep breath and closed the door.
“How are you this evening, Mr. Sweeney?” What else did you say? Back home you could be brusque. Here, there was protocol to observe.
“She gonna be okay?”
“Excuse me?”
“Bella Cummings. Is she gonna be okay?”
He looked just as ashamed as he should have. This was a whole new role for Mitch Sweeney.
“I can’t really discuss other patients,” Dr. Chokshi said. “But I wouldn’t have let her go home if I thought she was in any danger.”
Mitch nodded his head and stared at the floor. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to tackle the girl.”
“No,” the doctor replied. “From what I’ve heard, you were attempting to take down the seventeen-year-old high school valedictorian.” Guys like Mitch were too used to people letting them off easy. He wasn’t going to get away with that shit in Dr. Chokshi’s exam room.
“Yeah,” Mitch said, but he didn’t sound proud.
The doctor turned to the sink to wash his hands. “And this was all over a statue?”
“It’s not just a statue.” The word was like a match to a pilot light. Mitch’s famously volatile personality flared up. “It’s about our heritage and our history. You’re not from here. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Dr. Chokshi pulled on his rubber gloves. “Heritage and history mean nothing where I come from.” As he began unwrapping the bandage around the movie star’s forehead, he could feel the man twitching. There was something Mitch desperately wanted to ask. The doctor was surprised he was holding back.
“Where do you come from?”
Dr. Chokshi smiled. Mitch knew better, but he’d gone ahead anyway. Over the past few months, the doctor had heard the same question a hundred times. Sometimes the way it was phrased was clearly hostile. But Mitch sounded genuinely curious. “Queens,” the doctor answered. “It’s in New York City.”
“I know that,” Mitch said. “I meant originally.”
“I’m from Jackson Heights, Queens. Born and raised. I attended Queens High School for the Sciences and I will root for the Mets till the day I die.”
“Humpf.” There was always a humpf. “Where are your parents from?”
“Queens,” Dr. Chokshi said. “Also born and raised. If you’re inquiring about my ancestry, my ancestors lived in India. What about yours?”
“Ireland, mostly,” said Mitch. “That’s where the Sweeney name comes from, anyways. Got some Scots in the mix as well.”
“Yeah, and when did they come over?” One of the surprising things Dr. Chokshi had discovered during his time in Troy was how much white people loved being asked that question. Talk to one shortly after their 23andMe results had come in, and the conversation could go on for hours.
“They all made their way here at different times. Some branches go way back in America. Got a lot of people who came over during the potato famine.”
“What an amazing country this is, am I right?” Dr. Chokshi said. “Do you think our ancestors could have imagined that the two of us would meet in the middle of Georgia?”
Mitch snorted. “Probably not,” he said.
And he’d been doing so well, the doctor thought as he revealed the wound. “Quite a gash you got here. I need to clean you up a bit, but looks like you’re going to need about a dozen stitches and a tetanus shot. Do you know if you’re allergic to lidocaine?”
“Doubt it,” Mitch said. “These are hardly the first stitches I’ve ever got.”
“Well then, you know it’s probably a good idea to drive up to Atlanta tomorrow and get a plastic surgeon to take a look.”
“You thinking I’ll have a scar?”
“Most likely,” Dr. Chokshi told him. “Though a plastic surgeon—”
“Nope.” Mitch cut him off short. “Happy to take a scar. It’ll be good for business.”
“As long as no one finds out how you got it,” the doctor said.
In the tense silence that followed, the words hovered between them. Guys like Mitch weren’t used to people calling them out. Maybe they’d get “canceled” by Twitter. But few people had the balls to tell a man Mitch’s size what they really thought to his face.
“I bet you’re wondering why someone like me moved to your hometown.” Dr. Chokshi waited, but Mitch wouldn’t take the bait. “No? Well, your friend Mr. Walsh didn’t hesitate to ask. He seemed to think I came here to bomb the Walmart. I assured him that I didn’t leave the Empire State Building behind so I could blow up a fucking discount store in south Georgia.”
“What the hell?” Mitch responded with unfeigned surprise. “Logan called you a terrorist? Shit, I’m sorry to hear that. I just met him yesterday, and it is quickly becoming apparent that the little fucker ain’t right. For the record, I did not ask where you’re from ’cause I think you’re a terrorist. I happen to love Indian food.”
“Yeah? What’s your favorite dish?”
“I’ve been to India a few times. Never ate a single shitty thing while I was there. But if you want to know my favorite, it was probably the kosha mangsho in West Bengal.”
“Sure it wasn’t the tikka masala?”
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? That shit’s British. Just because I’m from here doesn’t mean I’m a moron.”
“So I guess you got this gash on your head by acting like an intelligent, fair-minded adult.”
“I told you I was protecting my heritage. By the way, if you got a problem with people like me, I got news for you. This town is full of us.”
Dr. Chokshi had been waiting for the conversation to return to Troy. “Which brings us back to the reason I’m here. I moved to this lovely town because one of the last GPs in Troy died of old age two and a half years ago, and they couldn’t find a single person to take his job. Not a single one. His former patients weren’t getting the care they needed. A couple of old folks died needlessly. It got so bad that an organization offered to pay off a new doctor’s student loans if they took over the old guy’s practice. For a long time, there were no takers.”
“Why wouldn’t anyone take the job?”
“Well, first, it pays shit. Though believe it or not, there are doctors out there who aren’t in this line of work for the money. But the do-gooder types didn’t want the job, either. You know why?”
“No.”
“Because of that statue you were fighting for—and what it represents.”
“What it represents? We look at that statue and see our forefathers who died fighting an invading army. We see bravery and honor. That’s what it represents.”
“Okay. Let’s say that’s one hundred percent true. Now let me tell you what the rest of the world sees. We see the statue of a man who owned hundreds of human beings and fought a war to keep them. And we see people living almost two hundred years later who want that man standing outside their county courthouse. The courthouse where every American is supposed to be treated equally. So I guess you could say the rest of the world sees that statue as a message, which, if you’ve ever read anything about Augustus Wainwright, you’d know is exactly what he intended it to be. Wainwright put it there so the Black people who actually built the courthouse would know they’d never be given a fair shake in this town. And so people who look like me would know we’re not welcome.”
Mitch crossed his arms and winced while the doctor administered the lidocaine. “Well, I am sorry if that’s what y’all think. But we don’t have to give up our history because it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“And I’m sorry that when I’m gone, your town might just have to make do without a doctor because nobody outside of Troy can read your fucking minds and see that all your thoughts are peaceful and pure and full of love for the illustrious Augustus Wainwright, who you claim wasn’t a terrible person despite the fact that he bought and sold human beings.”
As Mitch sulked, Dr. Chokshi began the stiches. He’d sealed up half of the gash before Mitch spoke again.
“So you came down here to live with all us backward racists just to pay off your student loans?”
“Wait, you live here?” the doctor shot back. “Thought I read somewhere that you make your home in the Hollywood Hills.”
“The ex got the house in the divorce,” Mitch grumbled. “I’m buying a place while I’m here.”
“Wonderful! Let me be the first to welcome you to the community.” Dr. Chokshi was starting to enjoy himself. “I know it’s been a while since you lived down south, but you can’t believe what people say about us. Aside from a few notable exceptions, one of whom was just sitting in my waiting room, most people here are friendly and welcoming. Just like my dad told me they’d be.”
Mitch kept his head still while he rolled his eyes upward to meet the doctor’s. “I thought you said your dad lives in Queens.”
“He does. But when he was a young obstetrician, he spent three years working in a town like Troy. I grew up hearing all about it and wishing I could have the same kind of experience. Good works are a big part of our religion. Plus my whole family loves country music.”
“Oh yeah?” Mitch sounded skeptical. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Johnny Cash.”
“He’s the man,” Mitch said.
“Waylon and Willie, too. I like the Outlaws. My dad’s into the wholesome early stuff. The Carters. Jimmie Rodgers.” The doctor paused. “You know—that’s what really gets me. There are a million great Southerners who’d make a better statue than the one you’ve got.”
“Who would you pick?”
“From this state? Probably Little Richard—the Georgian who single-handedly invented rock and roll. Or maybe Brenda Lee? Alice Walker or Erskine Caldwell if you’re feeling fancy? André 3000? Whoever came up with the recipe for the fried chicken at Chester’s? The South’s greatest gift to the world is its culture. Half the music people listen to these days has its origins here. Hell, the South gave the world barbecue and you want to honor a slaveholding asshole who lost a war in the middle of the nineteenth century? You know what, I bet there are a ton of great actors from around here, too.”
“Julia Roberts—”
“Julia Roberts! And you’re out there fighting to protect a statue of Augustus Wainwright? What the hell is wrong with you people?”
Mitch laughed.
“Who knows, Mitch, maybe one day they’ll put up a statue of you. But first you better get on the right side of history. Stop hanging out with book burners and racist assholes. Take a lesson from Johnny Cash and try to make the world a better place. Besides, don’t you think playing against type could get you a lot more attention?”
It was the last sentence that seemed to make an impact on Mitch. “You know what? You may be right.”
“Well, if you’re going to make a change, you’d better do it fast. Sounds like everything that happened at the rally was caught on camera. And if I were you, I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around with a Nazi.” Dr. Chokshi stood back to admire his work. “I think we’re done here.”
Mitch pulled out his phone. “I’m gonna need to arrange a different ride home. You mind if I hang out for a moment and call my brother to come get me?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Chokshi put out a hand. “When I was born, my parents tossed a coin to see who got to name me. My father won. You can call me Hank.”