Dachshund Through the Snow

by Roxanne St Claire

  He gave her a sideways look, his frown deepening. “Why would you want to go there, if I may ask? Not exactly the best clientele in the city.”

  Oh, really? “I’m meeting…my husband,” she said, loving the sound of the word on her lips. “His company sent him here on business, and I’m surprising him.”

  “He should think about a new company if they’re putting him up at the Metropolitan,” he said. “But you’ll find it about six blocks that way and one block east.”

  “Thank you.”

  Seven blocks to get to Norman. Agnes practically pranced down the sidewalk, avoiding snowdrifts, smiling at the few people who were out on Christmas morning, her heart beating faster. Until she arrived. Then it just fell into her belly with a thud.

  There wasn’t a neon sign that faced the street, or a doorman, or…much of anything, just a few steps down into a street-level doorway that looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since 1937. The hand-painted words Hotel Metropolitan were the only way to confirm she had the right place, but the door was locked.

  Darn! Did they close hotels on Christmas Day?

  Frustration made her lift her fist and pound on the door, ready to fight for her right to see Norman.

  After about ten noisy knocks, the latch flipped, and the door opened to reveal an older blond woman in a housecoat, who snuffed out a cigarette on the ground next to Agnes.

  “Good Lord, even you girls have to take a break on Christmas Day. I ain’t opening any rooms.”

  Agnes blinked at her. “I’m looking for Norman Anderson,” she said. “He’s a guest here.”

  The woman gave a soft snort. “Norm hasn’t been here for a month or two, hun.” She frowned a little, scrutinizing Agnes’s features. “I don’t remember you.”

  “I’ve never been here,” she said. “But my…boyfriend stays here. He’s a salesman.”

  “Oh, I know what he is. The guy with the brushes and the fancy red Ford. It gets him what he needs.” She dropped her gaze over Agnes. “He’s your…boyfriend? You sure about that?”

  “Well, it’s not…official, but I’m here to surprise him.”

  “Oh.” She chuckled and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting another one without taking her blue eyes off Agnes. “He’ll be surprised, that’s for sure.”

  Agnes stepped away from the puff of smoke, irritation and a little terror rising. “I need to find him.”

  Her gaze moved down to the tapestry bag. “You in trouble, hun?”

  “Not…really. Nothing I didn’t bring on myself.”

  “Mmm.” She huffed out a smoky breath. “Ain’t you cold?”

  Freezing. “I’m fine. I just need to find Norman Anderson.”

  The woman thought about that for a long time, her brows knit together as she considered her response. Finally, she gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, listen, when the men check in here, I make them give me a telephone exchange number. Want to call him?”

  “If he’s not here, then where would he answer the phone?”

  “Beats me, but you can try. It probably rings to where he lives.”

  “He lives in hotels,” she said, remembering the whole conversation. “He’s a traveling salesman, and that’s the life he lives.”

  “Well, you can try calling. You won’t be any worse off if that number is as phony as the day is long. Some men are, you know.”

  But not all…right?

  Pushing the door open, the woman gestured for Agnes to follow her into the tiny hallway that smelled like beer, cigarettes, and some really bad perfume she’d once bought at Woolworth’s.

  “What’s your name, hun?” the woman asked.

  “Agnes Mastros,” she said without hesitation.

  “Greek, are you?” She pushed open a wooden door with a number one on it and a sign that said Super nailed to it. The apartment was dimly lit and certainly did not live up to Mama’s cleanliness standards. The place could have used a thorough dusting, and would it hurt to hang the clothes draped over the furniture?

  “Thought you Greek girls stuck with your own kind,” she said around the cigarette in her mouth, pulling what looked like a recipe box file from behind a toaster.

  “We usually do,” she said, knowing exactly what the woman meant. Her own kind would be Greek…like Nikodemus Santorini. “But not always.”

  “Not when they look like Norman,” she said with a quick cackle. “And you, I gotta say. You’re a pretty one. You two would make a nice…” She dropped her gaze to Agnes’s stomach and stared. “Couple,” she finished.

  “We are,” Agnes said, sounding as weak as she felt.

  The woman clamped her lips around the cigarette and flipped open the box. Silently, she moved a few index cards, then took the cigarette out and smashed it into a small metal ashtray with the remnants of about ten others.

  With each moment and movement, Agnes’s stomach grew tighter. What tasted like her last bite of powdered sugar soured and made her tonsils swell like she might have to throw up right here on the faded rose carpet.

  “I’m organized,” the woman said, as if Agnes had accused her of not being so. “And I’m sure I have his…here it is. Norman Anderson, Fuller Brush. That him?”

  She nodded. “That’s…what he said.” For some reason, everything he’d ever told her felt like it could go up in smoke as easily as this lady’s Lucky Strike. Why would the Fuller Brush company make him stay here? They gave him that nice rental car.

  “Here’s a telephone number.” She took a pencil and pad and wrote it down, saying the words as she wrote them. “Olympia 3-3937. There’s a payphone in the Jewish deli down the street, and that’ll be the only place open on Christmas. You’ll need a dime. Got one, hun?”

  She nodded, taking the piece of paper. “Thank you…ma’am.”

  The woman gave a yellowed smile. “It’s Rita, and you’re welcome. Happy I had the number. Just consider it your Christmas miracle. Good luck, hun.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, folding the paper and shoving it into her pocket.

  Outside, the freezing air stung her skin through the sweater and made her eyes water as she walked to the deli at the end of the street. At least she wished that was what made her eyes water. It couldn’t be…regret. Fear. Disappointment. Or whatever that Rita woman planted in her heart.

  Kaplan’s was open and doing a surprisingly good business. On the wall just inside a chilly vestibule was a big black payphone that took Agnes’s dime, gave her a tone, which hummed until her shaking fingers circled the dial seven loops, slowly.

  A man picked up on the second ring, the sound of laughter in his hello.

  “Norman?” she asked, hating that her voice cracked. She cleared it immediately. “Is Norman Anderson there, please?”

  Dead silence. “Who is this?”

  Only three words, but she recognized his voice, and relief washed over her. “Agnes. It’s Agnes.”

  “How did you get this number?” he demanded, his voice low, hushed, and sickeningly harsh.

  “I…” For some reason, she felt the need to protect Rita. “I just did. Don’t you want me to call you?”

  More silence and some shuffling. Then, “Agnes, what the hell? It’s Christmas Day.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Aren’t you with your family?” he asked after a moment, his voice considerably softer and kinder now.

  “I ran away,” she said simply. “I want to…” Marry you. But something told her he’d hang up, and she’d never see him again. And she wanted to see him again. She had to. If not, she’d marry some Greek who didn’t speak English and was going to own a diner.

  “I want to see you,” she finished, a little embarrassed at the seductive tone she used. But…she knew it would work. “I wanted to…be with you.” She swallowed all the desperation that rose up like bile. She couldn’t give up on him. Not yet. If they just saw each other… “You know how I feel, and…I want to show you.”

  She heard a soft i
ntake of breath. “Later?” he said.

  “Where are you? Where is this phone?”

  Another beat of silence and shuffling. “My parents. In Brooklyn.” It sounded like he was pressing the receiver against his lips. “I gotta just get through Christmas here, and then I’ll make up some excuse…”

  Make up some excuse? “Why don’t you tell them you’re seeing your girlfriend?”

  “Because they’re so old-fashioned, and they think I’m…single. They have weird ideas, you know?”

  “Oh, I know.” She actually smiled, happy they had parents with weird ideas in common. “How much later? I’m kind of stuck in the city at Kaplan’s Deli, six blocks from the subway.”

  “Stay there as long as you can. I’ll be fast. Don’t leave, Aggie.” His voice was low and warm. “I have a plan for us.”

  She clung to that plan, that warm voice, and that thin hope for four and a half hours in a booth at the back of Kaplan’s. Fortunately, the waitress was nice and felt sorry for Agnes, who explained that her boyfriend was on his way, but stuck in a snowstorm.

  So many lies, she thought as she sipped her fifth cup of coffee and checked the clock with dill pickle hands for the millionth time, staring at the words It’s always time for pickles! in the middle of its face.

  She tried not to think of what the Mastros Christmas Day must have been, forcing herself not to picture her mother crying and her father yelling and her two sisters furious that Agnes had spoiled the holiday.

  Of course, they just thought she left in a huff over marrying some guy she’d never met. When they found out the truth…yeah, there’d be hell to pay, but…

  She looked up as the door dinged and in walked the closest thing to a god that Agnes had ever laid eyes on. His short blond hair was shiny and combed so nicely, his face clean-shaven. His suit looked like he was about to start a day of knocking on doors to sell brushes and vacuums and anything else any poor housewife would buy just for the joy of looking at him for a few minutes longer.

  He broke into a smile that revealed dimples and straight white movie-star teeth, holding her gaze as he slid into the booth across from her. He leaned forward, took her hand in his, and squeezed her fingers.

  “Merry Christmas, gorgeous.”

  Just then, all was right with the world. “Merry Christmas, handsome.”

  He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. “We’re going to Philadelphia.”

  She blinked at him. “Pardon?”

  “My new sales gig starts the day after tomorrow in Philly. Come with me, sweetheart.” He kissed her knuckles. “We can be there in a few hours, and Fuller already has a nice hotel.”

  Heat swirled through her, along with fear and anticipation and some kind of longing so strong, she didn’t even know what to call it. She blinked at him, forcing herself to focus.

  “If it’s like the Metropolitan, I don’t want to go.”

  “It’s a Hilton. Top of the line. We’ll stay there together.”

  “In the same room?” She felt all the blood drain from her face. “Without…getting married?”

  He tipped his head as if to say, Really, Aggie? But he didn’t say anything. He just kissed her hand again. “I’m working my way toward an assignment in Vegas. We can do it fast and sweet then. But for now…” He turned her hand and pressed his lips against her palm, his mouth searing her skin. “Be my girl, Aggie. Be mine. Tonight.” He looked up through his thick lashes. “You know I love you.”

  Everything in her melted like the snow sliding in wet streaks down the window next to her.

  “I love you, too, Norman.”

  He tugged her out of the booth, brushed his lips over her cheek, and whispered, “Let’s go, Aggie.”

  For some reason she’d never understand, she couldn’t say no to him.

  Chapter Seven

  “And?” Pru urged, frozen in her spot on Ambrose Avenue. “You went to Philadelphia with him?”

  “Did you marry the lad?”

  “What did your father do?”

  “How did you end up as a Santorini, then?”

  Pru and Gramma’s questions fell as fast, but not as lightly, as the snow that had started as Yiayia finished her story.

  “Where is this butcher shop?” she asked, looking around. “We’ve used them for meat supplies at my grandson’s restaurant, but they deliver, so I have no clue where it is.”

  “You’re avoiding the questions,” Gramma Finnie said with a slight tease in her voice.

  “Seriously, Yiayia,” Pru added. “We have to hear the end.”

  “You’ve heard enough. You know…what I did. Now, let’s get this ham and not freeze to death in the snow. Where to, ladies?”

  “To Philadelphia,” Gramma Finnie whispered. “Surely I didna know you had it in you, lass.”

  Yiayia gave her a sharp look. “You’ve never made a mistake, Finola Kilcannon?” Her voice was as sharp as Pru had ever heard.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Pru put a hand on Yiayia’s shoulder, surprised at how tense it was and that her body was trembling as it must have that winter day in New York when she made what had to be a pretty monumental decision in 1955. It would be monumental today, too. But then? To run off with a guy she barely knew? “It might have been a scandal back in the day, Yiayia,” she said softly, “but no one is judging you today.”

  “No one?” Her dark gaze was pinned on Gramma. “Because I feel a tad bit judged.”

  “No, no,” Gramma insisted, pulling her coat and scarf tighter. “The lass is right. I lived in those days, and I know that must have been a wee earth-shattering at the time, but I can tell you this, the Kilcannon women have quite the history of six-month pregnancies after marriage, if you know what I mean.” She tried for a smile. “So no judgin’ you for decisions you made in the, uh, bedroom.”

  Yiayia’s eyes shuttered closed. “I can taste your judgment, Finnie. I can see the shock and disappointment in your eyes. I know what you’re thinking. I’m as bad as the girls Rita took a cut from to use her rooms to rent by the hour at the ‘Hotel Metropolitan.’” She made air quotes. “Took me a few years to figure it out, but boy, does it feel stupid to realize how naïve I was.”

  “Yiayia.” Pru wrapped an arm around her. “You were naïve about a lot of things. You made a mistake a million girls have made. And Gramma’s right. I come from such a long line of women who were pregnant when they got married that I’m afraid my father is going to chain me to the house when I’m eighteen.”

  Yiayia didn’t smile at that, but she did shift her gaze away from Gramma. “Let’s get the ham, for crying out loud. I want my dog.” Her voice cracked. “I need my…Charis.”

  “Charis?” Pru asked, remembering she’d said it earlier. “What does that mean?”

  “Never you mind, let’s just get a move on.” She ushered them all forward.

  “All righty, then,” Gramma agreed. “And let’s hope this is the last stop before we can get the baby, get the ticket, get the dog, and get dressed as Santa and Mrs.”

  Yiayia just took a deep breath and exhaled as she walked, silent while Gramma prattled on about how Bob the butcher was the nicest man in Bitter Bark and treated his wife like a queen.

  Pru stayed close to Yiayia, feeling the older woman’s shame in telling her story and wanting to do anything to take that feeling away.

  “Why do you want to name the dog Charis, Yiayia?” she asked softly. “Is that a Greek word?”

  “Stop pestering, Pru! It’s my dog to name how I see fit.”

  “Agnes.” Gramma cooed her familiar reprimand when Yiayia used a particularly unpleasant tone. She did it frequently, Pru realized, and Yiayia never seemed to mind. She was usually grateful for the reminder.

  But if the look she just gave Gramma was any indication, she wasn’t grateful now. “Don’t ‘Agnes’ me, Finola.”

  “All right, all right. I’m just trying to get you to calm down.”

  “I’m calm,” she insisted. “C
old and tired and…” She closed her eyes. “Please, I’m begging you both. Don’t ever share what I’ve told you. My son didn’t know, so he never told Katie. No one knows. No one.”

  “Oh, Yiayia,” Pru whispered, sliding her hand into the crook of the older woman’s arm. “There’s something special about friends who share secrets. That’s what Teag…” She closed her mouth and bit back the rest. “Your secret is safe,” she finished. “You have my word.”

  “And mine,” Finnie added. “And an Irish woman’s vow to secrecy is nothing to ever question, I assure you. Now turn here, and we’ll be at Bob’s in no time.”

  They walked in silence down the side street, noticing how many of the small stores had hung Closed signs for Christmas Eve. They’d taken a long time to get here, pausing to sit on a bench while Yiayia told her story. Maybe they’d taken too long.

  They passed Bone Appetit, the dog treat store that Pru’s cousin Ella ran, and Friends With Dogs, the grooming shop that her aunt Darcy owned. Both those were sealed up tight for the holiday. The last shop was Bob’s, and Pru reached it first.

  “Mom is not going to be happy,” she said as she stared at the sign that said Bitter Bark Butcher—Let Us Meat Your Needs. And the one that said Closed below it.

  “Oh dear,” Finnie said when she caught up. “’Tis going to be a huge disappointment for Christmas Eve.”

  Pru waited for Yiayia to complain again, mad about the setback, focused on the dog, short-tempered with everything. But she shook her head, thinking.

  “I had an issue with this butcher a while back,” she said. “He made the wrong delivery to Santorini’s during one of those weeks I was covering for Alex. It was long after hours when John discovered it, and he called, and Bob himself came in here, got our proper order, and delivered it to the restaurant that evening. If we call this shop, I believe the phone is forwarded to his home.”

  “Are you sure?” Pru asked. “Mom can live without the ham, and I don’t think she’ll renege on the offer to use Danny as baby Jesus, so we can still get the ticket.”