Exotic Animal Medicine

The wife was driving on the night they hit Mr. Ronald.

"My first drive since getting married," she said.

"First this, first that," said her husband. He looked at her, sitting high in the seat: her hair looked flimsy and blond in the late sun. It was ten-thirty and still light. These were the days for marrying—the long days, and the summer. It hadn't rained.

"You've got to be thankful for the weather," the registrar had said to the husband. The husband was thankful for the weather and for everything else. He wore a narrow suit and his wife wore a blue dress. They came out of the registry office into the pale summer, and St. Mary's rang the hour. [End Page 38] [Begin Page 40]

"Listen!" said the wife. "Just like we've been married in a church."

It was midday, and because they were in Cambridge, the college bells rang.

Their witnesses—two friends—took photographs. The four of them went to a pub on the river to celebrate among the tourists and the students who'd just finished exams. The tourists pressed around them, clumsy at the bar; the students slipped in among them and were served first. The bride and groom were rocked from side to side in the crush of people. They cooperated with the crowd, and liquid spilled over their glasses.

They began to drink.

Their friend Peter swayed benevolently above their table. He motioned over their heads with his arms.

"I suppose I'm best man," he said. "By default. So, a toast: to David and Sarah. To Sarah and David. I'll make a statement about love. I'll say a few words."

"You've already said more than enough," said the other witness, Clare.

"Not nearly enough," said Peter, and sat down. By now it was four in the afternoon, and the June town was keeping quiet. The scent of the roses in the college gardens increased, and the black East Anglian bees responded, hanging lazily above the scent. The lawns maintained their perfect green. The river was laid out straight like a track for trains. David and Sarah and Clare and Peter walked along it to find another pub.

The swans idled on the brown river, the ducks chased punts for food, the geese slid against the wet banks. Tinfoil barbecues were lit on Jesus Green, one by one, and the smoke hung in morose columns above each group, never thick enough to form a cloud. The husband and wife and their friends picked their way among the barbecues. They encountered dogs, friendly and wayward.

"Stay well today, canines," said David. "Stay happy and healthy."

Sarah was on call that night.

"I'm not worried about them," said Sarah. "It's the Queen of Sheba I'm worried about. But he'll be good."

(At the surgery, the Queen of Sheba lifted his haunches and lowered his head to stretch his grey back. He walked figure eights in his cage the way a tiger would. The nurse poked her fingers through the grill as she passed Sheba's cage and Sheba, blinking, ignored them.)

"He'd better be good," said David.

"That bloody cat," said Sarah, happily.

The crowd at the pub parted before the bridal party, and they found an outdoor table, newly abandoned. Their happiness was good luck. Sarah said, "Just one more drink. I might have to work."

"You might," said Peter. "And you might not."

"Remember, this is your wedding reception," said Clare, and she placed her arm around Sarah, coaxing.

Sarah looked up at David.

"Just one more, then," she said.

"We'll make it vodkas," said Peter.

"My first vodka as a married woman," said Sarah. She sat against David and felt the day carry them toward each other. The hours passed at the pub, and they didn't think of going home, although this was what they looked forward to: the privacy of their bed against smudged windows, its view of small gardens and the beat of trapped bees against glass that shook as the buses moved by. Their...