Read Between the Lines

by Jo Knowles

  Their fingers move elegantly, waltzing back and forth as if teeny little people are doing some sort of complex modern interpretive dance, bowing then swinging and dipping, faster and faster. Beautiful in their deliberateness.

  I watch, fascinated. Mesmerized.

  Jealous.

  They continue on, only stopping to take a sip of their cappuccinos. Or to reach forward to touch each other. On the cheek. The hand. The knee again.

  I ignore the empty notebook in front of me. The flatline noise gone silent and unplugged. Dead and forgotten.

  I’m in such a trance that when the hands stop, I seem to be on pause myself, waiting for their next move. All this time, I haven’t been looking at the couple’s faces. Just their hands.

  But now there’s only one hand in view.

  And one finger.

  Sticking straight and deliberately up and directed at me. The one sign I know. Ugly and angry.

  A rush of heat surges through my chest. I can hear the heart monitor on the page beeping again. It ricochets off my ribs as my heart races and blood rushes to my hot, mortified face.

  I move my eyes away from the no longer beautiful, elegant finger and to the man’s face.

  He scowls and makes a sign at me. “Mind your own business!” he shouts.

  And I’m finally filled with a feeling.

  Shame.

  Other people in the café look at me now. They look with disdain. Like I’m a terrible, insensitive person. A gawker. A creeper. A voyeur. A loser.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to —”

  I cup my hand over my mouth. He can’t hear me. God.

  I am a horrible person.

  I wave apologetically the way you might when you cut someone off in traffic by mistake and try to acknowledge that it’s your fault. I try to make my eyes look sorry, too. Anything.

  But the damage is done.

  The man waves back dismissively and inches closer to the woman so I can’t see his hands.

  The feeling rushing through my veins slows and turns to something thick and heavy. Something that makes me sink in my seat in disgrace.

  I close my empty journal and bring my cup to the rubber bin next to the bar. Barista Boy smiles at me but not in the Hi again, cutie, kind of way he might have before witnessing what a jerk I am. More like a poor clueless kid kind of way. Like he feels sorry for me for being so uneducated. So not an insider at this café.

  I feel the disapproving eyes of the other customers on me, but especially of the couple. This place will never be my place. These will never be my people. We’ll never swap books or talk politics or suggest obscure movies to one another.

  As I walk out, I can feel the quiet, glad hands behind me.

  I imagine them silently clapping.

  Outside, I stand in front of the café, not sure if I should turn left and go home or turn right and wander aimlessly. A city bus drives past and pulls over up ahead. The doors fold open, and a small group of girls steps off. They’re wearing school uniforms. They giggle together as they make their way toward me and into the café.

  I imagine them taking my table near the graceful-hands couple, too busy chatting and giggling to notice the silent tiny dancers. Maybe the man will watch them, their mouths bouncing soundless words back and forth at one another. Their hands waving meaninglessly to accentuate the words he can’t hear. Maybe he will smile inside his own world, glad he can’t hear their high-pitched chattering. Maybe he’ll turn to the beautiful woman across from him and reach for her word-filled hands. Maybe he’ll hold them still in his and say how much he loves her with nothing but his light-brown eyes. She’ll see the story — their story — unfolding in front of her just by looking at his face.

  Why?

  Why am I so good at romancing everyone’s story but my own?

  I wish I could feel the words to my own story start to unfold in my brain, down my arm, and into my fingers. I see, again, the man’s middle finger pointed at me, challenging me. Get your own life. If only I knew how.

  The tips of my fingers do not tingle with the words waiting to be written in my spiral notebook, the way I had imagined they would. There is no café of my dreams, with a clever name on a beautifully painted wooden sign that appears like a beacon, a guiding light in the gray that is my life. It’s as if my brand-new blue Sharpie is out of ink before it can write a single word. All I see is a dirty old city street stretched out before me. Endless and promise-less.

  And then I’m falling.

  My hands hit the pavement first, then my knees. It doesn’t hurt so much physically as it does emotionally.

  Even the sidewalk resents me.

  I stand up, cheeks burning, and brush myself off.

  My eyes begin to water and it’s sort of a relief. I want to cry. I need to cry. I look around to see if anyone would notice or care.

  A woman with a dog is leaning against the building next to me. The dog, a small one, stands at her side, wagging what should be a tail but is only a stump.

  “You tripped over my cane,” the woman points out. “Sorry about that. Are you all right?”

  “Ye-eah,” I say. My hands sting but they’re not even scraped, really.

  There’s a cardboard sign leaning next to the woman.

  HOMELESS PLEASE HELP

  “Your head was in the clouds like everyone else’s,” the woman tells me.

  Everyone else. Just like everyone else.

  “I’m not,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Like everyone else.” I’m getting used to this lying thing.

  She shrugs.

  I reach into my purse and fish out my wallet. I don’t have much. A five and a few ones. (And the twenty hidden in another compartment for emergencies only.) I decide to go for the five.

  “Here,” I say, handing it to the woman.

  “Big spender!” she says, taking it without resistance.

  The dog stays put but continues to wag its stubby tail. He’s a wiry-haired thing, with scruffy tufts around his eyes that look like enormous eyebrows.

  “Can I pet your dog?” I ask.

  My parents have warned me a million times not to talk to strangers. Not to approach dogs I don’t know. They’ve told me about people pretending to be homeless and conning them out of money. I’ve always been careful. Always crossed the street when I see a person asking for spare change. But here I am, asking to pet this woman’s dog, despite the sign that makes it very clear she is homeless.

  Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve always been careful.

  For what?

  I bend down and reach my hand out to the dog. He sniffs it. His tail stub wags so hard and so fast, his rump waddles. I brush my hand softly along his back. The bones of his spine stick out of his fur.

  “He’s so skinny,” I say.

  “He’s a street dog!” the woman yells. “What do you expect?”

  I step back, surprised. She seemed so nice seconds ago.

  The dog yips and comes closer to me for more pats.

  “I think he needs some food,” I say. The more I pet him, the more I think he might be starving.

  “Do I look like I have food for him?” the woman asks, all sarcastic.

  “You’ve got five dollars,” I point out.

  The dog licks my hand. Tastes it. It hurts my heart.

  The woman grunts. “There’s a bodega on the corner. If you really care, here. Take it and go buy him something.” Her voice softens guiltily. “My legs don’t want to move just now.”

  I take the money back. The dog looks up at me with hopeful eyes.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “What’s his name?”

  “Oliver.”

  “I’ll be back, Oliver.”

  He stands on his back legs and holds his front paws bent, as if to beg.

  It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I hurry to the corner and spot the bodega. Inside, it smells like tobacco and spices I don’t recogn
ize and sour milk. The man behind the counter looks me up and down like I’m something to eat. It’s way more disgusting than when Oliver did it.

  I ignore him and explore the two small aisles, looking for dog food, but they don’t seem to carry any. Instead, I find some cheese and crackers and a bucket of Slim Jims. I’m sure Oliver will like those.

  The man at the register looks at my purchase: a box of Triscuits, a packet of Kraft cheese slices, and three Slim Jims.

  He rings me up.

  “’At’ll be seven forty-three,” he says.

  I give him the five and dig in my purse for the rest.

  He puts everything in a flimsy plastic bag.

  “Have a nice day!” he says, then spits something brown into a paper cup with blue flowers on it. I can see this is not the first spit, as there’s about an inch and a half of disgusting brown liquid already in the cup.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying not to gag.

  I step outside and breathe in the city air thankfully. I don’t think it ever smelled less polluted. I rush up the street to Oliver. The plastic bag rustles with each hurried step. When he sees me, Oliver hops up and barks and wags that crazy tail stump. He does his circus act.

  I finally know what it means when people say their heart melted.

  “What did you get him?” the woman asks. She’s sitting now, leaning against the brick wall of the building.

  “Just some snacks,” I say. I reach in the bag and pull out a Slim Jim. Oliver goes nuts, somehow knowing the treat’s for him.

  “Be patient,” I say as I struggle with the plastic wrapping.

  “Would you like one?” I ask the woman. “I bought a few.”

  She scrunches up her face in disgust. “That’s nasty.”

  “I also bought cheese and crackers,” I say. I realize with shame that I asked for the dog’s name but not hers.

  “I’m Claire,” I say. I can hear my parents’ collective gasp in my head. “What’s yours?”

  “Ginny. Short for Virginia.”

  “That’s pretty.”

  She shrugs like it makes no difference.

  I finally manage to peel back the plastic from the admittedly nasty-looking meat product and hold it up to Oliver.

  “Sit,” I say.

  Instead he does his practiced begging pose again.

  “OK,” I say. “It’s true, that’s more impressive.” I hold out the meat, and he takes it gently but quickly, then whips it around as he chews.

  Next I open the box of Triscuits. I hold it out for Ginny first, but she turns it down.

  “I don’t need that,” she says. “Or the dog.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not mine. He likes you. Take him.”

  “He’s . . . not yours?”

  “He just started following me, pathetic thing. Street dogs are all around, ya know. But most are smart enough to be more sly. This thing was as bold as you please first time he found me in that alley off Sykes Avenue. That’s where the best restaurant Dumpsters are, and the street dogs know it.”

  I nod, as if I know it too.

  “Most dogs cower when a person comes near ’cause they know street people will fight ’em for a good piece of meat or something. They’re used to dodging kicks. But this one sauntered right over to me and did his little beggar routine. I didn’t give him anything, mind, but he followed me anyway. He’s been following me for three days, and I haven’t given him a bite.”

  “Poor thing,” I say.

  “He’s just a dog.”

  I look down at Ginny. She’s wrapped in an old army-green sleeping bag. Her brownish-gray hair is greasy and matted. Her teeth are dirty. Her hands are nearly black with grime. But I act like I care more about her dog than I do her.

  What is wrong with me?

  “I’m sorry,” I say. For the second time today, I am full of shame. This time, it’s even worse.

  Ginny shrugs again. “Dogs are a lot easier to love than people. You should take him. He doesn’t belong on the streets. Miracle he’s alive at all.”

  “But —” I look back and forth from one to the other. There seems to be more to their relationship than three days.

  “How did you know his name is Oliver?” I ask suspiciously.

  “He had to have a name, didn’t he!” she yells, angry again. She pulls the sleeping bag tighter over her shoulders. Oliver walks in circles nervously. I wait, not sure what I’m supposed to do next.

  “He made me think of the story of Oliver Twist,” Ginny says quietly. “You know. The Dickens story? About the orphan boy. My mother read that to me when I was a little girl. There was a movie, too, but the book was better. This dog reminded me of Oliver because he isn’t like all the other street kids. He’s . . . special, I think. He should have a real home.”

  Oliver stops circling and moves closer to Ginny. He sniffs her sleeping bag and wags his tail stump. I think he can sense her sadness. I’m sure he’s been with her for longer than she says. But how much longer can he survive without food? Before he gets some disease or nabbed by animal control and put to sleep? Or bitten by another street dog?

  Oliver tries to climb onto the sleeping bag. I can smell it from here. Pee and sweat. Ginny nudges him off. “Go on,” she says. “Take him. Bring him to a vet. He probably has fleas and tapeworm and who knows what else. But you look like you come from a family that can afford to fix him up.”

  “Won’t you miss him?” I ask.

  “I said take him!” she barks. Her face contorts and looks vicious.

  Oliver whimpers and cowers, his backside hunched, as if he’s trying to tuck his tail between his legs, only the stub isn’t long enough.

  The sleeping bag comes alive and pushes Oliver away again.

  “Do . . . do you want to come home with me?” I ask him.

  He inches closer to me and sniffs my shoe.

  “Go on!” Ginny growls. Red splotches like fine paint splashes have sprouted on her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes have gone mean.

  “But —” I try.

  “I said I don’t want him!” She starts rocking back and forth inside her bag.

  I bend down and put the box of crackers and a packet of cheese next to her. She swipes them up and clutches them to her chest.

  “The five bucks would’ve been better,” she mumbles.

  “Sorry.”

  “Just go before I change my mind.” Her voice softens. “Take good care of him.”

  “I will.” I wait to see if she wants to say good-bye to her dog. At least give him a pat. But she pulls the sleeping bag up over her shoulders and hides the food inside. Then she pulls the bag all the way over her head and retreats inside completely.

  The sleeping-bag body goes still.

  Oliver whimpers. We wait together but nothing happens. As I stand there, a feeling creeps up through my feet, my stomach. My heart. I don’t know why I’m crying. Oliver looks up at me and wags his stump tail slowly. Sadly.

  “Are you OK, miss?” a woman asks. She’s holding a little kid’s hand.

  “Fine,” I say. I wipe my eyes. The woman walks on. The kid looks back and waves.

  I wait a few more minutes to see if Ginny will come out again, but she doesn’t.

  I reach inside my bag and pull out my journal and new Sharpie pen. I open the book to the page that has the date. And my flatline. I think about how dead I felt less than an hour ago and how awake I feel now, even though it hurts.

  Under the flatline, I leave a note.

  I’ll take good care of him.

  I look at the flatline one more time, then find the twenty hidden in my wallet. I bookmark the page with the bill, then quietly close the book and put it and the pen beside the still sleeping bag.

  At the sound of the journal touching the sidewalk, Ginny pokes her head out just a little and looks to see what I put down. She makes a displeased face and hides back in the bag.

  Oliver sniffs the bag one more time, then yips, loud and demandi
ng.

  Slowly, a filthy hand reaches out of the opening of the bag. And gives me the finger.

  No one has ever given me the finger before, and here I am getting it twice in one day. I don’t know what that says about me. But I feel like I’ve deserved it.

  At least it makes walking away a bit easier.

  Maybe Ginny knows that.

  Oliver wags his tail stub and slowly follows, only stopping a few times to whimper and look back at the sleeping bag that is hiding Ginny — a life — completely from the outside world. She has started rocking again. And now, I fear, sobbing.

  We stop at the corner one more time to turn back. The bag looks small from here. From here, you can’t tell a person is inside. It looks like a pile of garbage someone left on the street.

  Oliver sniffs the air.

  “You can go back,” I tell him.

  But he stays.

  “Well, then, we have a long walk, my friend, because I’m pretty sure they won’t let you on the city bus. Probably not even a taxi.”

  He yips happily and walks on.

  Oliver stops at each block to wait for the white man-shaped image to appear on the walk sign before crossing. Every so often, he brushes against my leg, and I bend down to give him a pat. My hands smell terrible from his stinky fur, but I don’t mind. When we pass a shop owner watering flowers in a window box, I ask if Oliver can have a drink. I look at the water longingly and also regrettably, as it is making me need to pee. I realize I had that stupid coffee drink and forgot to use the bathroom before I left the café. No way can I hold it until we get home.

  We.

  I smile.

  When Oliver has his fill of water, we carry on. Finally, we come to a park where people walk their dogs, jog, and sit on benches to eat during their lunch breaks.

  “Should we go in?” I ask.

  Oliver shakes and yips. I remember there are porta-potties somewhere near here, so we wander around until we find them.

  I hesitate. Will Oliver wait outside for me?

  “I’ve gotta go in there for just a sec,” I tell him. I lean down and scratch behind an ear. “Then we’ll go home. OK, boy?”