by Rice, Debby
Richard looked older and a little tired with some gray in his hair. But he wore the years like a good pair of jeans. The babyface that had made him seem too safe to be interesting was tempered by tiny wrinkles around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth and the hint of a developing double chin. He looked less like an eager puppy and more like a strong and watchful German shepherd.
“Well, I hear the dog, but I don’t see it,” he said, laughing.
Tong pointed to his pocket. “Do you believe that noise?”
“You weren’t coming to see me were you? I’m just closing up for the day.” He turned and locked the door to his office.
“No, we were going down the hall to Dr. Feingold,” said Tong. “But I’m not even sure that there’s anything wrong with her.”
“She’s really upset,” said Richard. “For some dogs, a trip to the vet is as stressful as an illness. Give her to me for a minute. I’m pretty good at calming a nervous puppy.” Richard held out his hands.
Tong took me out of his pocket and handed me over.
“What’s her name?” said Richard.
“Sugar,” said Tong.
“Hey, Sugar. What’s got you so worried?” Richard whispered, “Don’t like the smell of the other animals?” He stroked my head with his thumb. “A mini Chi, right? I haven’t seen many of them.”
“Yup, that’s a mini Chi. Gave her to my wife for our anniversary.”
“She seems like a great dog,” said Richard, looking down at me.
Dogs can read a thousand messages in a person’s touch. I could sense fear, anxiety or anger in a stroke on my back. Cradled in Richard’s hands, I felt peace running under his skin like a deep, slow river. I realized how greatly I had undervalued this patience in my restless life.
“That-a-girl,” Richard said, handing me back to Tong. “By the way, I’m Richard Preston.”
“Tong Lin. Good to meet you. Thanks for calming the dog down.”
“You know, Feingold leaves at 4:00. He’s already gone for the day. I’d be happy to see Sugar anytime. Bring her in tomorrow if you’d like. I think I have an opening around noon.” He handed Tong a business card.
“Thanks, buddy. Here’s my card. Come see us if you need some cleaning or laundry. We’re the best in the neighborhood.”
“Hey, thanks. I might just check you guys out. I’ve been using Rite Clean.”
“You should give us a try. We got better prices.”
“I’ll remember that.” Richard took the card. Then he turned his back to me and started down the stairs.
I barked and scratched at Tong’s pocket, hoping Richard would turn around. But he didn’t. I felt abandoned, as if my last friend on Earth had died. The happiness of seeing him dissolved with the knowledge that, unless I could find my way back to my body, he would never see me.
As we drove back to the Lucky Dream, I wondered how I could face the string of meaningless days that lay ahead. I imagined hours filled with anxiety and boredom. Just when I was ready to give myself completely over to despair, I was surprised to find some comfort in an unexpected place. Like a voice-over in my consciousness, Sugar came to my rescue. I realized that if I ever wanted to be Cherry again, I should take a lesson from her. Dogs are not despondent. They are hopeful and perseverant. A dog grabs the dirty sock of life in his jaws and never lets go. He tugs and shakes it for all he’s worth.
Shortly after that epiphany, my luck began to change.
Chapter 4
“As long as you are not aware of the continual law of Die and Be Again, you are merely a vague guest on a dark Earth.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I did not see Richard the following day. Instead, I had a different kind of encounter. And this unusual experience put me one baby step closer to having Richard see me.
Mrs. Lin almost never took me outside. I did my business on pages from the Tribune, which she spread in a corner of the bathroom. This actually enabled me to keep up on current events and fashion, depending on which sections she chose.
It was just before lunch, and we were sorting clothes. I say “we” because, in an attempt to be more doggish about my destiny, I was trying to make amends with Mrs. Lin. So, from time to time, I would extract a sock from the pile of dirty laundry and carry it in my teeth to the appropriate basket. She was charmed by this display of intelligence and resourcefulness.
Edmund was with her behind the counter. He was wearing baggy gray pants that looked suspiciously like pajamas and a tomato-colored embossed with a line drawing of a chicken wing and the words “Tully’s Bar Free Wings” written in black block letters.
There must have been lots of laundry dust in the air, because Edmund’s nose was dripping furiously, and every so often he’d make a little pig snort. Conversation wasn’t usually high on his list, but he wouldn’t shut up. He kept pestering Mrs. Lin to buy a TiVo. Edmund was a devotee of any device that provided an excuse to remain seated for extended periods. He especially loved spending hours gazing at a computer monitor.
“But, Mom, I could record all those Korean TV dramas for you,” he whined.
“I not even like that junk,” said Mrs. Lin.
“Then how come you watch them all the time?” said Edmund.
I could tell she wanted to slap Edmund. “Sugar needs walk. You stay here till I get back.”
“I was just going to McDonald’s to get some lunch.”
“I pick you up veggie and rice from Dong Hoe.”
“You know I hate veggies and rice.”
“That’s why you got that big fat belly. How you ever get girlfriend?”
I don’t think Mrs. Lin expected him to answer that question. She was busy trying to find my leash.
“Okay, Sugar, sweetheart, we do bye-bye.”
“Mom, could I walk the dog?”
“Edmund, you see this dog?” Mrs. Lin pushed her glasses up on her nose. She seemed truly exasperated, “She very, very, very tiny. She need responsible person to take her outside.”
“But, Mom, I’m sixteen years old. How am I gonna learn responsibility if you never trust me with anything? Please.”
By this time, Mrs. Lin had found the leash, and we were on the way out the door. I looked over my shoulder to see Edmund scowling, his finger stuck up his nose.
When we got outside, Mrs. Lin picked me up and stuffed me in her purse. She was moving fast, as if she was on a mission. It was a beautiful day. Chicago is famous for steaks, shopping, architecture and gangsters. Tourists do not come here for the climate. But each time I’d escaped the Lucky Dream since my accident, the sky had been cloudless. The perfect weather was a fist in the stomach, reminding me of my lost life. We passed Hugo’s and Gibsons. Over the rim of the purse, I watched people eating lunch. They sat crowded together at outside tables, laughing and scarfing down martinis, hamburgers, French fries and salads—ordinary food elevated to the realm of ecstasy by the knowledge that I would never taste it again. Each restaurant was a mini-oasis buffeted from the river of traffic by planters filled with marigolds and petunias. Sun-bronzed girls, belly rings flashing, flicked their long blond hair. The city was a picnic laid out on red gingham with everyone gorging on fried chicken and deviled eggs while I sat on the grass, mouth watering.
I thought Mrs. Lin was going to the grocery. She surprised me by turning east on Lake Shore Drive and then south to Michigan Avenue. As she walked by Chanel, I strained my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of someone familiar. I still had not learned to shake the ridiculous notion that I should scream for help. Involuntary yaps kept escaping. I clapped my muzzle shut. I didn’t want Mrs. Lin to think I was sick and cart me off to her disappointing vet. Fortunately, she was too preoccupied to notice. When we reached the Ritz, I was astonished as Mrs. Lin sailed through the entrance, past doormen who greeted her by name. Perhaps she was making a pickup for her new Number One Customer.
The Ritz is sensual. It is a place where only good things can happen. The lobby is a sanctuary of civility and calm. Ove
rstuffed couches and chairs invite executives, weary from the humiliation of being herded barefoot and beltless through airport security, to relax; Yet there is an undercurrent of excitement, the feeling that some wonderful surprise waits just around the corner. The scent of flowers floats on clouds of perfectly cooled and purified air. Fountains bubble. Uniformed staff smile and murmur a prayerful “my pleasure” in response to even the most outrageous request.
I remembered the happy clink of my heels on the marble foyer and the way my shoes would sink into the oriental carpet, and I could almost feel my body again. It was both wonderful and tragic to be here. Mrs. Lin walked past the hotel elevators and continued to the private residences.
The desk attendant said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lin. I’ll tell Mrs. Dichter that you’re on your way up.”
“Thank you, John,” she replied.
Mrs. Lin lifted me out of the purse and put me on the ground. I was dressed in the clown suit—a white cotton sweater covered with large red polka dots with a ruffle around the collar. Of all my outfits—there are many because customers gave her stuff all the time—Mrs. Lin liked this one best. I shook myself to express distaste.
“That’s the smallest dog I’ve ever seen. It is a dog isn’t it?” John said.
“This a mini Chi. Very new, rare breed. Everyone want, but only few in city,” Mrs. Lin answered huffily.
The elevator came. On the way up, Mrs. Lin applied a fresh coat of red lipstick and combed her hair. At the 30th floor, the door opened to a private foyer. We were greeted by another over-the-top floral arrangement. A crystal vase filled with jumbo white roses sat on a black lacquer and gold-leaf table. Two museum-quality Impressionist nudes flanked the bouquet. Every surface was gilded, marbled or mirrored.
Mrs. Lin didn’t give the opulence a second glace. She wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the unrestrained display of wealth. After waiting in the anteroom for several minutes, she became impatient. She picked up the door knocker, a Victorian lady’s hand holding a golden ball. Instead of tapping politely, she lifted the ornate monstrosity and let it fall. Sound vibrated off all the shiny surfaces. The vase trembled precariously, and the flowers rustled. Seconds later, the door opened.
I have heard that dogs are color-blind, so for a moment I was afraid I had regressed to an even more canine state. In contrast to the foyer’s haute Liberace, the living room was an ice palace. The walls, floor, ceiling and furniture were white. Crystal paperweights and figurines twinkled from tables and shelves like stars in the Milky Way. Voluminous gauze curtains covered floor-to-ceiling windows, filtering the light and softening a panoramic view of Lake Michigan.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lin. So nice to see you again.”
“Good afternoon, Cristoff.”
Before us stood a creature so racially and sexually androgynous that he (for that was my assumption) defied categorization. Echoing the Arctic theme, he was dressed in a long white tunic over white jodhpurs and white ballet slippers without socks. Dreadlocks peeked out of the silk scarf that was tied around his head in a lopsided turban. Doe eyes smudged with kohl and beige lipstick added a fashion-shoot edginess to this baptismal ensemble.
“Mrs. Dichter is almost ready. She begs your patience. She’s running a bit behind today. May I offer you a refreshment? Mint tea? Sparkling water with lime?”
“You got green tea. I have glass of green tea. Please bring water with two ice cubes for doggie.”
“My pleasure,” said Cristoff as he slithered off into the glacial depths.
Mrs. Lin made herself comfortable on an enormous white sofa. She picked up a throw pillow and turned it this way and that, as if inspecting for imperfect dry cleaning. Cristoff returned bearing a crystal bowl filled with water and the cup of tea.
“In the interest of time, perhaps you would like to make the offering now?” He gave Mrs. Lin a strange sideways smile.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
I watched in amazement as Mrs. Lin opened her wallet and peeled off three new hundred-dollar bills. She folded the cash and stuffed it in the manila envelope on Cristoff’s drink tray. Unless she was paying out on a pony, Tong would be furious.
Just then, I heard wind chimes.
“Madame is ready. I’ll carry your drinks on the tray.”
Cristoff led us down a long hallway. A series of portraits lined the walls. The largest and most detailed was prominently displayed at the end of the corridor. It was an oil painting of a man on horseback. In the background were cacti and mountains, suggesting a Southwestern or Mexican landscape. The rider wore a black sombrero heavily embroidered with silver and gold thread. In spite of the hat’s shadow, you could see that his expression was stern, possibly angry. Cristoff knocked gently on the door beside the painting.
“Please come in, Ruby.”
Cristoff held the door for us.
“Ruby, my dear, how wonderful to see you. But, darling, I don’t like the look of that aura. The reds and blues are muddy, and there’s a patch of yellow that’s throbbing above your head. Please, dear, sit down and tell me what’s troubling you.”
Dogs do see better in the dark, but it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Mrs. Dichter was sitting in an enormous white brocade wingback chair. The chair was pulled up to a round marble-topped table. A tray filled with flickering scented candles of various sizes and shapes was the centerpiece. The cloying smell of wax and gardenias made the air heavy. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Dichter was dressed entirely in white.
She wore a tailored pantsuit. The narrow jacket was low-cut in the front, exposing a bosom like wrinkled pillows. Her hair had been teased and lacquered into a shining platinum dome. Diamonds highlighted strategic points on her anatomy: A pin in the shape of a butterfly blinked from her lapel, a tennis bracelet peeked out beneath her sleeve, and stones the size of hazelnuts flashed on every finger. I guessed her as a well-preserved sixty, although the candlelight made it difficult to judge. At first, I thought she might be wearing an extremely lifelike mask. Her makeup was airbrushed, the lips stenciled, and the contours of her cheeks and eyes expertly defined. When she spoke, she kept facial movement to a minimum, giving her the stillness of a doll or a well-tended corpse.
“Oh, you’ve brought your little dog.” I heard the faintest German accent.
“Yes, Sugar only thing that keep me going these days.” Mrs. Lin’s tone was so pathetic that I experienced an unfamiliar surge of affection and nuzzled her calf.
Mrs. Lin sat down on a smaller version of Mrs. Dichter’s throne. I stood at attention beside her.
“Now, tell me, Ruby dear, did you buy the thong? Did you leave the Victoria’s Secret catalog opened on the nightstand like I told you?”
“I do everything you say. I fix face before bed. I fix face again at 5:30 a.m. before he get up. Nothing work. He fall asleep reading Racing Form. He wake up reading Racing Form. I never going to have sex again in lifetime.” Tears were welling up in Mrs. Lin’s eyes. “Trudy, you got to tell me what to do.”
I longed to tell her to save her $300, give the jerk over to the pit bulls and the ponies, and buy a vibrator.
“Ruby, Ruby, calm yourself,” Mrs. Dichter reached to cover Mrs. Lin’s hand with her own. “Let’s clear out the toxins with some breathing exercises. Then we’ll consult the spirits. I’m sure that Don Paco will have some special advice for you.”
“Okay, sweetheart. That why I’m here.” Mrs. Lin sighed like she had just finished a 15-hour day at the Lucky Dream.
Mrs. Dichter sat up straighter in her chair.
“All right, shall we place our hands on the diaphragm? Now, big breath in through the nose for eight counts. Hold and exhale in eight. Ready?”
“Ready,” confirmed Mrs. Lin like a co-pilot preparing for takeoff.
“Feel the belly expand, take the air up into your chest, now up to the thorax. Hold, now exhale slooooowly. Get all the air out. Release your tension. Let it drift into the atmo
sphere,” chanted Mrs. Dichter. This went on for several minutes, both of them huffing away.
There was a pitcher of water on the table. Mrs. Dichter poured herself a glass and took a long, gulping drink, as if the heavy breathing had made her very thirsty. Miraculously, she did this without allowing her lips to touch the glass. The odd expression was, I assumed, an effort to preserve her perfect lip line. When the glass was empty, she settled back in her chair and closed her eyes. The three of us sat in silence. Several minutes passed. The air gathered and deepened the way it does before a storm. The room began to vibrate, as if oxygen was being replaced with electricity. My tail quivered and my paws felt unsteady. I wondered if the strangeness was something only I, as a dog, could sense. There was a draft of painfully frigid air. I huddled closer to Mrs. Lin’s leg. Goosebumps rose on her calves. The candles on the table flickered and the smell of gardenia became intense. Mrs. Dichter’s head dropped to her chest. She began to snore so loudly that I thought she might be in respiratory distress. Mrs. Lin was perched on the edge of her chair, saucer-eyed. I had never seen her so excited.
We both jumped when the door opened. Cristoff glided in. He stood behind Mrs. Dichter and began massaging her neck. What happened next was almost as strange as my reincarnation. Mrs. Dichter was slumped forward in her chair. Suddenly, as if an invisible torturer had grabbed her by the hair, her head jerked up, and she sat at attention. Her eyes were wide open, but her gaze was as blank as a flat-liner, and her skin was the color of chalk. Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead. I expected Cristoff to dial 911. Instead, he calmly blotted the sweat that was pouring down Mrs. Dichter’s cheeks with a towel.
She spoke, and the voice that came from her mouth made my fur bristle and sent my tail between my legs. Without altering her appearance, another personality had possessed her body. The fusion was so complete that Mrs. Dichter had disappeared. She had morphed into a sixty-year-old Mexican with a three-pack-a-day habit.
“Hey, pinche cabrón,” she growled. “Why you wake Don Paco? I need rest. Leave me alone.”