Marooned in Manhattan (6 page)

Scott patted me clumsily on my head like I was a pet, but I didn’t mind. We gave Ben a Scooby snack for being
an empathy dog. Then we watched an episode of
The Dog
Whisperer
by unanimous vote. Scott had to help Ben cast his vote because he tends to lift his left front paw for all choices when you ask him. I think that’s partly because he’s such an eager-to-please kind of dog.

Chapter 9

I
t’s hard to believe that I’ve been in
New York for over a month already. This morning, I went to Zabars to get some juicy bones for Ben. Zabars is a very cool delicatessen on Broadway, a few blocks from Scott’s apartment. They sell all kinds of delicious food but you have to cope with a horde of tiny, wrinkled old ladies that
deliberately
knock into your knees with their mini-trolleys. Scott says that Zabars should hand out shin guards when you walk in the door.

Joanna thinks Ben is named in honour of Benjamin Franklin and she teases Scott about that because we get so many dogs and cats in the clinic named after American Presidents. We treated three dogs called Lincoln last week and two cats called Obama the week before. Scott is crazy about Benjamin Franklin and he has a marble bust of him in his room. I asked Scott if he named Ben after his hero but he said, ‘absolutely not’, that he just named Ben ‘Ben’ because it is a strong, one-syllable word, which was easy for a puppy to get used to. Scott gave me a book about Benjamin Franklin. The more I learn about Benjamin Franklin, the less I think Ben was named after him. Benjamin Franklin was very smart.
Even Scott concedes that Ben is not the brightest dog in the world, just bright enough. But, of course, we would never hurt Ben’s feelings by letting him hear that and we wouldn’t take kindly to someone else saying it either.

It was Eurdes’s day today. She’s from Brazil but she doesn’t speak Brazilian because Scott explained to me that there is no such language. She speaks Portuguese because, hundreds of years ago, the Portuguese invaded Brazil and stayed. They killed a lot of the native people in horrible ways. They brought European diseases with them that killed even more of the native people. Eurdes doesn’t seem interested in her country’s bloody past. This surprised me because in Ireland we are obsessed with our history, so much so that people try to change it all the time.

Back in March, right before St Paddy’s Day, I found myself in serious trouble at school for throwing Andrew Toohey’s metal Batman pencil case at Cian Tiernan’s head. I
completely
lost the plot when Cian slagged off Michael Collins, who is my ‘Person I Most Admire’ (Not Including Blood Relatives). Michael Collins was a great leader in the Irish War of Independence. He’s practically the Irish George Washington, not that someone like Cian appreciates how great he was. He said that his dad said that Michael Collins was massively overrated. Not satisfied with slagging off my number one Irish patriot, Cian threw in a nasty dig at Mum as well, saying that his mum said my mum shouldn’t be collecting the Children’s Allowance because she was American and that meant I was American as well and we were
sponging
off the state. It was very unlucky that Andrew’s pencil case was right next to my hand, especially because most of the kids in my class had soft, plastic pencil cases. But anyway, it barely touched Cian, just grazed the side of his head. It wasn’t very manly of him to squeal on me. I was suspended for three days without even getting the opportunity to tell my side of the story. The principal, Mr Smyth, said that it did not matter what provocation I had received; violence could never be justified. I thought about telling him that violence against the Nazis was justified, but I knew that would be cheeky and I was in enough trouble already.

Both Mr and Mrs Tiernan turned up uninvited at our flat that night, which was very unpleasant because I hadn’t mentioned my suspension to Mum and I had binned the note from Mr Smyth that I was supposed to give to her. To be fair to me, I did that to try to avoid worrying her, which was working out well until the Tiernans ruined it.

Mrs Tiernan told Mum that I was a hooligan and that she had a good mind to have the police press charges because I belonged in Mountjoy Prison. Mr Tiernan looked very uncomfortable and sweaty and said that that was going too far. Way too far, in my opinion.

After Mum calmed the Tiernans down and sent them on their way, she said to me, ‘You know better than that. You have to use your words.’

I said, ‘Sorry, Mum, for letting you down.’

She responded, ‘You let yourself down.’

She topped that with, ‘I’m very disappointed in you.’

Mum made me stay alone in my room without TV or any books or her laptop or other distractions so that I could think about my actions. She occasionally brought me trays of my least favourite food, like Shepherd’s Pie. It was like being in jail except I was not permitted to make the one phone call, which anyone who has ever watched TV knows I was entitled to.

I did come to regret what I did. I could have caused Cian brain damage, or rather,
more
brain damage because he seemed to have suffered some already. I could even have killed him. I tried hard to think about Cian’s good qualities. That took up most of my time. Eventually, I remembered that he was very generous about sharing his crisps at lunchtime. He always offered them around straight away as soon as he opened the bag. He didn’t wait until the bag was nearly empty and there were only teeny, bitty crisps left at the bottom, like some other kids did.

I felt genuine remorse about my attempted murder. So, I had no problem apologising to him when I went back to school, but it still rankles that he never apologised to me. If it were not for Michael Collins and other brave Irish men and women, Ireland would still be a little British colony and the Tiernans would be nothing but indentured servants. I am not entirely sure what ‘indentured’ means but it sounds right.

Chapter 10

S
cott took me with him up to the Bronx
yesterday to visit a lame horse at the Riverside stables in Van Cortlandt Park. Through the open doors of the inside arena, we watched a mothers’ and daughters’ group having a riding lesson.

‘Oh no!’ groaned Scott. ‘I think that woman on the
chestnut
mare is Christina Morgan, one of my more committed stalkers. I don’t know why I am such a magnet for bored divorcees.’

‘Joanna says it might have something to do with your James Bond complex,’ I replied.

‘That’s a compliment,’ Scott said cheerfully.

‘I don’t think anything with the word “complex” in it is a compliment. And maybe if you didn’t always look like you stepped off the cover of GQ magazine, you would have less worries about stalkers.’

‘GQ!’ said Scott with a low whistle. ‘Not bad. I can’t help knowing how to dress, and I buy the GQs for the clients!’

My mouth dropped open.

‘Yeah, sure, the people who come into the clinic, like Mr Fannelli, are
so
GQ readers.’

Scott pulled off his brown aviator sunglasses and squinted as he peered closer at the riders.

‘It’s not Christina,’ he said with relief, ‘just some woman who must visit the same hairdresser for her extensions. Let’s go find this lame horse.’

One of the grooms led us into the stalls, explaining that the horse had just arrived that morning and he had noticed she was lame. He suspected laminitis. I had never seen a real horse up close before. One time in Dingle, when I was a little kid, I had a ride on a very sweet white donkey called Noddy. But the nearest I have been to a horse was the plastic contraption masquerading as a horse in the play
War Horse
that Mum’s friend, David produced in a theatre in Belfast last autumn.

The groom led a mare, Bobbi, out of her stall. She was dapple grey with a black mane and markings from her hooves to half way up her knees that looked like black socks. I patted her gently on her neck and she nuzzled her face into me. I inhaled the smell – the intensely warm, comforting, sweetish smell of horse and hay feed. Almost instantaneously, I felt the
Joy To The World sha la la la
feeling, except it was a quieter, calmer, feeling, like lowercase
joy to the world
and minus the
sha la la la
bit.

Looking up from the hoof he was examining, Scott half smiled and half-laughed at me.

‘You get it, Evie. I knew you would. People get horses or they don’t. There are no in-betweens.’

I nodded slowly. I get it. At least, I think I get it.

‘Will she be ok?’ I asked anxiously.

Scott straightened up.

‘It is laminitis but we have caught it early. She should be ok after a few months.’

As he discussed treatment with the groom, I patted Bobbi on her face and scratched her ears, talking soothing nonsense with her. She seemed to like it.

‘Would you like to start riding lessons, Evie?’ Scott asked.

I swung around.

‘WOULD I? Yes, yes, yes, I would LOVE it!’ I said, doing a little half-jump, half-skip.

‘Ok, we’ll get you started. They have classes for beginners on Sunday mornings.’

‘But won’t it be way too expensive?’ I asked, worried.

Scott shook his head.

‘Not a problem. Don’t worry about it,’ and he showed me how to lead Bobbi back into her stall, with my right hand on the halter just below her neck and my left hand further down on the lead rope.

Back at the clinic, concerned owners and their pets took up every spare centimetre of space in the waiting room.

‘Dudley is first,’ said Karen, our new, part-time receptionist.

‘Hey!’ said a bald man in a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, walking up to the reception desk and waving his thick, muscular, hairy arms in Karen’s face. ‘What is going on here? I was here first.’

Karen eyed him coolly.

‘Except for appointments, we basically operate on a
first-come
first-served basis, but we have to see animals with a potentially critical or emergency condition first.’

‘My pet is in a critical condition,’ he complained.

Karen looked at him disbelievingly.

‘Your cat has a
skin
infection,’ she pointed out, loudly enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. ‘While we, of course, take that very seriously, it is not something we would classify as requiring immediate or emergency assistance. The sooner you return to your seat, the sooner we will be able to move things along.’

The bald man stood his ground.

‘I am a very busy man. I don’t have the time to waste half a day here. What is it going to cost to get me bumped up?’ he said, pulling out a brown leather wallet.

Karen scribbled something on a card and handed it to him.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘It’s the address of the nearest vet, if you would like to go there.’

‘You can catch a cab right outside the door,’ she added.

The man slapped the white card back down on the reception desk and returned to his seat, muttering under his breath about ‘lousy service’. Karen winked at me and I smiled at her before heading into the examining room.

First up was Dudley, a ten-month old beagle puppy that had somehow managed to eat a packet of disposable lady razors. It was all the more bizarre considering that his owner, Mr Graham, is a ninety-one year old widower. He offered
no explanation and Scott asked for none. Second, we had an unidentifiable mutt who chased and caught her own tail, managing to break it. Next up, the bald Hawaiian shirt guy with his mangy cat and mangier attitude. He complained to Scott, ‘You should fire your receptionist, she has an attitude.’

Scott sighed. It had been a long morning.

‘Do I come around to your home uninvited and say you should fire your wife?’ Scott asked and, without waiting for an answer, added, ‘No, I don’t! If you don’t like my people, go somewhere else. Now, make up your mind, do you want me to treat your cat or not?’

The bald man looked sheepish. He said, ‘Sorry, I’m having a rough day and I’m more worried about my cat than I care to admit.’

Now it was Scott’s turn to look sheepish.

‘No need to apologise for loving your cat. Let’s get him up on the table and sort out his problem.’

Finally, after the bald man and his cat left, I watched Scott vaccinate an adorable litter of striped kittens.

‘Who have we got next?’ Scott asked Karen on the intercom, pulling off his latex gloves.

‘Greg Winters with his rabbit, Dr Pepper.’

In strolled a kid about my own age with a tall man with black hair streaked with silver, and silver rectangular-framed glasses. The man greeted Scott, and, taking
The New York Times
out of his briefcase said that he would wait in the waiting room. He didn’t look like a psychiatrist, I thought, and he has much better dress sense than my old psychologist,
Mrs Scanlon. I shut the door to the waiting room behind me.

‘How have you been doing, Greg?’ Scott inquired.

‘Great, apart from my mosquito bites!’ said Greg and I noticed a bunch of swollen red hives on his legs.

‘And how about Finn?’ Scott asked.

‘He’s good too.’

Greg didn’t look very like his brother. Greg has sandy brown hair brushed forward and green eyes and a dimple in his left check, which is wasted on a boy. He is very cute in a could-be-in-a-boy-band kind of way. Finn’s hair and eyes are dark and he looks like the type of boy who makes fun of boy bands.

‘Hi, I’m Evie,’ I said, holding out my hand, forgetting that the kids in New York don’t shake hands, but Greg didn’t seem to mind.

He shook my hand anyway.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re the one that took on the bully dirt bags in the park, three to one, right?’

‘What’s that?’ asked Scott.

‘Nothing,’ I said hastily and I smiled meaningfully at Greg who got the point straight away.

‘What’s up with Dr Pepper?’ Scott asked.

Greg hesitated.

‘He’s not really sick. He hasn’t been throwing up or anything but he seems to be itchy.’

‘Rabbits actually can’t throw up,’ Scott said.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘lucky rabbits! I hate the feeling of puking.’

Scott and Greg lifted Dr Pepper out of his cage.

‘Why did you get a rabbit?’ I asked as Scott began to examine Dr Pepper.

Greg grinned.

‘My Dad’s a shrink and he had one of his shrink theories that it would be good for Finn and me to have pets while he and Mom got divorced. We both really wanted a dog, a Rhodesian ridgeback, but neither of our parents wanted the hassle of a dog, so they bought us a parrot and a rabbit instead. I was so mad at first; when you want a dog, a dumb bunny rabbit doesn’t really cut it. But when I got to know Dr Pepper, I realised he has this amazing personality.’

I glanced at the black rabbit sitting motionless on the table except for an occasional scratch. He didn’t seem to be brimming with charisma.

‘My sister, Alicia, that’s Evie’s mom, had a pet rabbit when we were kids,’ said Scott. ‘He was called Tiger and he used to follow her around like a dog. Alicia brought him to visit me one weekend at college and he became a mascot for our hockey team.’

‘Ice or field?’ Greg asked.

‘Definitely ice,’ said Scott.

‘I play with the Rangers Youth League,’ said Greg. ‘I can’t wait for it to start up again in the fall.’

‘Can girls play?’ I wondered.

‘Sure!’ said Greg. ‘Can you skate?’

‘I can roller-skate, but I’ve never been ice-skating,’ I answered.

‘A bunch of us play at the rink at Chelsea Piers during the
summer. You should come with us sometime.’

‘Ok, thanks,’ I said.

‘I’ll hunt out my old boots,’ said Scott, although he had not been invited.

‘Back to Dr Pepper. Have you taken him anywhere different lately?’ Scott quizzed Greg.

‘I brought him to a kids’ pet show and competition in Westchester at the weekend. A pet snail took first prize. Beaten by a stupid pet snail! That’s not even a real pet.’

Greg looked astounded.

‘Dr Pepper didn’t walk away with the prize but he did pick up something – fur mites,’ Scott explained. ‘I’ll put some flea powder on him and give you some more. You can dust him with it again in ten days, so we can be sure they are gone.’

‘Thanks, Dr Brooks,’ Greg said, glancing affectionately at Dr Pepper, still scratching and wrinkling his nose.

I could swear Dr Pepper winked at me.

‘Did you see that?’ I said.

‘See what?’ asked Scott and Greg at the same time.

‘Nothing.’

I scratched Dr Pepper’s ears.

‘He’s growing on me,’ I said and Greg smiled.