Part 1 (1/2)

Dead Air.

Mary Kennedy.

To Holly Root, who made it all happen.

Chapter 1.

I think it was the call from the furrie that put me over the top.

I'd just started my afternoon show at WYME Radio when Vera Mae Atkins, my producer, scrawled the word ”furvert” on a piece of paper and waved it at me from the production room.

Furvert?

Once she had my attention, she flashed me a p.u.s.s.ycat smile. ”You have a call from Seymour on line one, Dr. Maggie. He says he's a furrie.” Then her lips gave a telltale quiver and I spotted the wicked gleam in her eye, a seismic shaking in her narrow shoulders. I expected her to break into the happy dance at any moment.

Enjoy! She mouthed the word through the large gla.s.s window that separates the production area from the cramped recording booth where I sit for two hours every weekday. She circled her index finger next to her ear in a Looney Tunes gesture and tossed me a broad wink.

Okay, the truth finally hit me. I had a furvert on the line.

”Furvert,” in case you're wondering, is a derogatory term--a mixture of the words ”furrie” and ”pervert.” What's a furrie (sometimes called a plus.h.i.+e by those in the know)? Here's an Idiot's Guide explanation. If you enjoy dressing up like a chipmunk and having s.e.x with someone wearing a racc.o.o.n costume, you would call yourself a furrie. Or maybe you're a snow leopard who likes to do the horizontal mambo with a giraffe. Or you could be a brown bear with a yen for a wildebeest--well, I'm sure you get the idea.

If that's what floats your boat, then Vera Mae--and others--would call you a furvert.

Most days, my training as a clinical psychologist leads me to be less judgmental, more accepting of all alternative life-styles, including furries and their bizarre couplings. At least that's what a psychoa.n.a.lytic approach would endorse. Two consenting adults dressing up as animals and having s.e.x--no harm, no foul.

But here's the thing (as Dr. Phil would say)--I just wasn't in the mood to be PC today.

I bit back a sigh. As the host of On the Couch with Maggie Walsh, I've had my share of unhappy callers--bored housewives, bitter employees, frazzled parents, desperate singles, and out-and-out crazies. In my quiet moments, I compare myself to Dr. Phil, or, as Vera Mae likes to say, ”Dr. Phil without the money, fame, or glory.”

Gee, thanks for reminding me, Vera.

I punched line one. ”h.e.l.lo! You're on the couch with Maggie--”

Before I could belt out the rest of my signature welcome, a male voice slammed over the line, practically hyperventi lating with rage.

”So you think we're a bunch of weirdos, is that it? A bunch of crazy kooks?”

Uh-oh. This was going to be worse than I'd thought. I glanced up to see Vera Mae grinning from ear to ear, her towering beehive bouncing from side to side like a dashboard bobblehead. Vera Mae, who hails from southern Georgia, believes that ”the higher the hairdo, the closer to G.o.d.” Her carrot-colored tresses could give Marge Simpson a run for her money.

She held up a sign with YES! on it, followed by another that read d.a.m.n STRAIGHT!

I should explain that Vera Mae has an infinite number of these hand-lettered signs, and she delights in holding them up at strategic moments during my call-in show.

I like to think of her as a Dixie version of a Greek chorus.

”Really, sir, I have no idea--”

”Your coverage of our annual furrie convention in Cypress Grove left a lot to be desired, young lady,” the voice went on in a harsh rasp. A smoker's voice, I decided. One of those gravelly whines that made you think he'd inhaled an entire truckload of Camels and was threatening to hack up a lung any minute. ”I'd expected that at the very least you'd invite our esteemed president, Clarence Whittaker, on your show as a featured guest . . . but no, you walked right by him at the Furrie Awards without even a h.e.l.lo.”

I frowned, trying to remember. The Furrie Awards. Oh, yeah. I'd done a live remote broadcast outside the Cypress Grove Convention Center last week, covering the Annual East Coast Furrie Convention, but it was all a blur.

Which one was Clarence Whittaker, anyway? Was he the guy in the Smokey the bear getup? Or the portly skunk with the swishy tail? Or maybe the gray fox who'd patted my behind with his mangy paw? There must have been two hundred people milling around the square, all dressed as their favorite animal, paws entwined, drinking champagne and dancing in a conga line.

Is it any wonder I'd blocked the whole scene from my memory? As Freud would say, there are no accidents. I wanted to forget, so my mind was a blank.

”It's discrimination; that's what it is! I'm sure my con gressman would like to hear about this. It's un-American.” His voice quivered with self-righteousness.

”Hmm. Well, I certainly apologize if I overlooked your esteemed . . . uh . . . leader, but--”

”But nothing! Did you know that over half of our furrie members are in a committed relations.h.i.+p with another furrie? And that most of us are college-educated and upstanding members of the community? We're doctors, lawyers, and teachers. We even have a few preachers in our midst . . .”

This call was going nowhere. I looked up at the window. Vera Mae was pretending to slit her throat.

”No, I didn't know that, but I'll make a note of it. And the next time you come to town, I'll be sure--”

”Well, listen, girlie, the next time we come to town, you be sure to give us the attention we deserve. And don't forget the furrie slogan.” He had another coughing fit as I leaned toward the board to cut him off.

”I'll certainly do that. And thank you for calling WYME.”

I punched a b.u.t.ton and disconnected him. ”Well, Vera Mae, I guess now we'll never know what the furrie slogan is, will we? What a loss.”

”Oh, I can think of a good slogan for that group,” she purred. ”How's this?” She leaned forward so her mouth was almost touching her microphone. ”Once you try yak . . . you never go back!”

Ouch. ”My producer thinks she's a comedian,” I said quickly. I could just picture the phones ringing off the hook at her yak comment. ”Who do we have next, Vera?” I struggled to put a note of professionalism into my voice.

After all, I am a licensed PhD psychologist, although my grad school adviser would probably burst an aneurysm at the career path I've taken. The truth is, I'd gotten sick of New York winters and rising real estate prices. When I spotted an ad for a radio psychologist in sunny Florida, I auditioned for the job and grabbed it.

I'm thirty-two and single and I figured this was the time to do something a little reckless in my life. So I closed my private practice in Manhattan, sold my IKEA furniture, and moved into a two-story mock-hacienda-style town house in a tiny town called Cypress Grove, Florida. It's north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, a pleasant drive to Fort Lauderdale.

As the chamber of commerce says, ”Cypress Grove--it's near everyplace else you'd rather be!”

That was three months ago, and I've never looked back. Well, not too often, anyway.

Vera Mae stopped snapping her gum and sprang to attention. ”We have Sharlene on line two.” Meaningful pause. ”Again.”

Could this day get any worse? Sharlene calls my show like clockwork, three times a week, always ready to complain about Walter, her supercontrolling husband. She's a cla.s.sic codependent, never ready to take responsibility for herself or change her life, and her voice grates on my nerves like teeth on tinfoil. Even over the phone line, she manages to suck the energy out of me.

I leaned forward to hit line two but spotted Vera Mae waving at me frantically.

”Is there a problem, Vera Mae?”

”Oh, wait a minute. Dang it, I goofed. Sharlene will have to wait a darned minute. Because now it's time for a word from our new sponsor, the Last Call Funeral Home.”

Vera Mae jammed a ca.s.sette in the machine, but nothing happened.

Dead silence. I made a ”what gives?” signal with my hands in the air.