Traveling Light (7 page)

Paula thought nothing.

“Here’s the matching lead.” The clerk tossed it into the shopping basket, too.

The groomer reached to take the rope from Paula.

“Okay, big guy, bath time.”

Paula reluctantly handed it over

“What’ll she do to him?” Paula asked, watching the dog being marched off to the grooming station in the back room.

“Oh.” The clerk smiled. “It’s just a bath. A brushing. Not the firing squad—he already dodged that. Blow drying. She’ll trim his nails, brush out those matted areas.”

“Can I go in there with him?” Paula asked.

“It’s better if you don’t. They get agitated if they see their doggie mom.”

Doggie mom.

“Hey,” the woman distracted Paula. “Let’s pick out some essentials; is this your first dog?”

Paula nodded.

“Then how ’bout after we shop I make you a complimentary cappuccino or latte to celebrate while you wait?”

“Deal.”
Thank God,
Paula thought. “Latte would be great.”

“Uhhh—I’d say you need two good brushes.” The clerk grabbed one that looked like a garden rake and then a second that looked more like a metal comb. “He seems really good-natured. Be sure to use this one”—she held up the rake—“to get out matted fur.” She chucked both into the basket. “What’s he been eating?”

Paula shrugged again, questioning her own judgment.

“Here’s a small bag of food to try—easy on the stomach.” The clerk placed it in the shopping basket. “Pooper-scooper.” The woman threw a long plastic-looking spoon into the basket. “Dog bed.” The woman snapped her fingers. She lifted a fluffy rectangle from where they’d been stacked.

“Now some toys—”

Toys? Christ.

“You’ll need a crate.”

The woman directed Paula’s attention to wire boxes that looked like prison cells.

“Mmm.” Paula shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

“A lot of dogs like them,” the woman advised. “It simulates the den.”

“No thanks.”

“Makes them feel safe,” the woman offered.

Paula shook her head no. The clerk was bordering on pushy.

“It’ll help with house training while you’re gone,” the woman said in a last-bid effort to persuade.

Paula gave her the
Back off
look.

The clerk shrugged. “Okay.” Paula had been warned; the clerk was absolved of all responsibility for chewing and “soiling.”

House training. Paula had not thought of that.

“Some treats then, bowls for water, food.” The clerk snapped her fingers again, mentally checking off the list for start-up homes. She picked up two white ceramic bowls with cobalt calligraphy that said “nourriture pour Chien” and “Chien d’ eau.”

“This’ll get you started.” She looked at Paula.

The computer beeped as the merchandise was being tallied.

“Got his shelter papers?”

“What?” The question snapped Paula out of a stupor. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She began fishing through her purse.

“Pet adoptions get fifteen percent off.” The clerk smiled. “Except for the ceramic bowls, of course. They’re French,” she said in a somber tone. “Latte’s on the house,” she said, tilting her head and lifting both hands.

“Thanks.” Paula produced the donation receipt from Animal Control she’d stuffed into the front pocket of her purse.

Bewilderment set in as Paula looked at the pile of dog paraphernalia. Still no word from Celeste. Paula watched as the woman carefully rolled each bowl in Bubble Wrap and taped it. The dog bed was rolled and tied with a rough-hewn twine. Probably organic.

“Here you go,” the woman’s cheery voice followed with a smile. “This’ll get you started. Want it delivered to your home?”

Home. Roger. She looked at the time.

“No. That’s okay; I’ll take it.”

Paula took a seat as her latte was being made. She covered her mouth and then rested her chin in her palm. She closed her eyes, needing a cigarette.

Roger had allergies to both dogs and cats. He’d break out in seconds. She hadn’t considered that; in fact, she hadn’t considered him at all.

Before she knew it the back door opened and Fotis emerged. Shiny, fluffy, his coat gleamed. He kept pausing to shake off before he reached her.

“Oh my God.” Paula stood up at the transformation. Her purse fell off her lap onto the floor.

“I can’t believe that’s the same dog.” The clerk paused to stare. “He’s got my vote for most improved.” She looked at her colleague, who nodded in agreement.

“Boy, he cleaned up well,” the groomer said. “No fleas or dermatitis,”she explained. “I thought he was in worse shape, but,” she went on to say in a high-pitched baby voice directed to Fotis, “you were just dirty.” Fotis wagged.

His coat was darker, almost a rich black, with dappled freckles across his muzzle and along the inside of his front legs from his armpits all the way down to his front paws.

He licked the clerk’s face as she tested the new red collar around his neck.

“He’s so good-natured,” the groomer remarked.

Taking a pair of pliers out from a drawer, she removed the rabies tag from the fraying old collar and transferred it onto the new one.

“There. Now you’re all set,” she said to the dog, and then looked at Paula.

“Shall we toss these?” The clerk held the old collar and leash between her thumb and index finger, the end of the rope curled and spiraled like a piece of rotini pasta.

“No,” Paula said a little too emphatically. “I’ll take those.”

The clerk’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Paula reached for Theo’s two earthly remains. Without a word, the woman lowered each into a large ziplock bag, sealed it and handed it over.

Paula added it to the shopping bag.

“Now there,” the woman said as Fotis’ eyes brightened at the tone of her voice. “Look what a pretty boy you are.”

The clerk snapped on the matching lead and handed it to Paula. “Good luck.”

CHAPTER 3

Paula brought Fotis to her office because she didn’t know what else to do. Though it was going on seven, she hoped Guillermo would still be there. Maybe he’d take the dog to Brooklyn for a day or so until she could figure out what to do, but no such luck.

There were several missed calls from Roger that she hadn’t picked up. Unease burned like indigestion under her collarbones each time his incoming call lit the display. It felt like she was cheating. Her sense of obligation pressured her to offer up a full account of Theo and the day’s events. She settled down into her office chair and worked up the nerve to call.

Roger answered immediately.

“Where are you? I’ve been calling.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

“I uhh … kind of … uhh … got a dog.”

“Yeah, right, and I just signed with the Yankees.” He laughed darkly.

“Roger, I’m not kidding.”

“We’re meeting Arnie and Sophie at seven. Remember? Their place?” He paused. “I suppose you forgot again.”

She had. Fotis looked up at her as if sensing the need for moral support. She touched the top of his head. It was so soft; she smiled without realizing it.

“I told you I, eh, I got this dog.”

Roger was silent except for the sound of his mind ticking through a litany of theoretical possibilities.

“Paula, what are you up to?” He chuckled with ridicule. She slouched as if ready to guard her midriff.

“I have this dog,” she stated as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “I’m waiting for Celeste.”

There was a long silence.

“I, uhh, I don’t know what to say.” His snort was incredulous.

She didn’t answer.

His inflection made her think of Jimmy Baldacci, the kid who broke up with her in seventh grade. How strange to think of Jimmy after all this time. That Friday afternoon when she knew just by his posture as he approached he’d wanted his silver ID bracelet back.

“It’s a very long story,” she said.

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“Like I said, I got this dog.”

“You’ve said that three times.”

Her heart sank at the mocking edge of his voice. An even longer silence enveloped them.

“Paula, what are you doing?” He’d asked that exact question during their second week of married life after she’d marched into his bedroom, climbed under the covers and declared, “I’m not leaving. I didn’t get married to sleep alone on a couch for the rest of my life,” to which he’d asked, “Paula, what are you doing?” with the same quiet, belittling tone. With that she’d dug her nails into her forearm. Her heart sank as she got back up, left the room and headed downstairs.

Paula ignored Roger’s question.

“I might have to bring him home for now—”

“My allergies—,” he interrupted her.

“Nothing a little prednisone won’t fix—,” the words shot out before she could soften their meanness, their fodder being eight years doped up on powerful allergy medications to combat the mold and dust of his brownstone. Her allergist once looked questioningly at her, puzzled. “Tell me about how you live; what’s your house like?” That simple enough question uncorked a torrent of blubbering, snotty confessions. The doctor had reached to grab tissues from the counter. Slowly shaking his head, he’d watched as she blew her nose, looking directly to catch her eye. “Paula—find a better husband.”

“Now’s not the time, Paula,” Roger said. Maybe the time would be right, as Eleni used to say, when “Aiyia Pote,” or St. Never’s Day, came .

“My phone’s beeping,” Roger interrupted. “Just a minute. It’s Arnie,” he said. “Probably wondering where we are.” Roger exhaled with an impatience reserved for those he termed the “lesser gifted.”

“I’ve got the dog.”

“So leave it somewhere, Paula,” he raised his voice, more aggravated, less suspicious.

“Leave him where?”

“Wherever you found it; I don’t care what you do.”

“Yeah, you really don’t…,” she said, meaning something else.

“I’m leaving.” His voice became cool. “I trust you’ll find your way there.” It was a tone he used with disagreeable colleagues.

She had nothing to say. The stone wall of his frustration was like a fist, getting in the last punch.

Fotis settled down to lie on her foot, panting as he looked up at her. Damp warmth from his belly fur felt good.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Roger concluded.

“Yeah, well, I guess I don’t either,” she said.

Paula ended the call and set the phone down, leaning back in the desk chair. She’d never mutinied against Roger before, not like this. Though the day was a blur of exhausting emotion, both her hands were relaxed and not clenched into balled fists like usual. It felt like the riddle of the last ten years had come down to one brief conversation.

Fotis’ body shook in time with his panting. The conviction that prompted his rescue from the shelter was fresh and true despite the ridicule. But dread flooded through her. The red message light pulsed on her desk phone—probably Christoff with another slew of complaints.

“Well,” she sighed, and stood.

The dog stood, too.

“Come on, Fotis.”

His ears moved ever so slightly at his name.

“Let’s go find a room; I’m beat.”

She grabbed the Pets du Jour shopping bags and tucked the dog bed under her arm. Here she was, homeless, armed with shopping bags and a leashed dog, in search of a place to sleep. Tears burned her eyes. With the irony of Theo rose the sticky feel of the ocean’s salt air, the scratchiness of his black coat blanketing them. It was eerie but comforting. Maybe love was that simple, could be that simple.

The dog followed her toward the door. The top of his head looked downy and puffy from the bath, like some of the younger birds on her window ledge.

“Let’s go.” She mimicked the pet shop woman’s baby-talk doggie voice.

Fotis stared deadpan at the fraudulent attempt.

“Okay.” Paula snickered, respecting his lack of enthusiasm. Setting the packages down, she squatted to look squarely at him.

“Hey, look—I never said I was fun, okay?”

Paula was an adult who’d managed to escape childhood without learning to play. Vassili and Eleni didn’t play; they worked. While other kids played in the street, Celeste would try coaxing Paula into a game of either jump rope or potsy—but Paula, perpetually plagued with the fear of being no good, would shy away. “Celeste,” voices from the street would beckon. “Forget about her; come and play.”

She declined department invitations to “Wednesday Night Scrabble.” Roger was always good for a ready-made excuse: “Oh, sorry, but my husband’s already made plans,” when in fact he spent most nights cloistered on the third floor in a dark room wearing a food-encrusted sweatshirt that looked riddled with bullet holes. The fabric was so thin you could read a newspaper through it. He sat squarely behind a computer screen, his face illuminated by colorful three-dimensional mathematical models of the time-space continuum of black holes.

She walked toward West Broadway with the dog, heading toward a hotel where she’d frequently book rooms for visiting professors and scholars. She remembered the hotel’s Pet Friendly signs.

In front of the hotel entrance, Fotis stopped, lifted his leg and drenched the entire side of the metal news box with a long stream of urine.
Shit.
Maybe the pet shop clerk had been right about getting a crate.

The lobby was quiet; business looked slow as Paula approached the front desk.

“Hi, would you happen to have a room for the night?”

“How many?”

“Me and a dog.”

“How many nights?” He looked at her.

“Ummm, I’m not sure. One, maybe two.”

“I put you in for two nights,” the young East Indian–looking man speaking perfect Brooklyn English confirmed. It was a week before the onslaught of parents, before Labor Day and the start of the fall semester.

“Perfect.”

“A deposit of one-fifty is required for pets on top of the room charge of three-fifty per night,” he explained in an unbroken sentence while reading from a computer monitor.

“Fine.” She leaned across the desk to try to peek at the screen.

“If there’s no damage upon inspection,” he continued, “we’ll refund your deposit.”