by Rice, Debby
I had heard nothing more about Tong’s $20,000 gambling debt. But Suzie’s fall from grace seemed to suggest that collection might be imminent. Knowing that the Lins probably couldn’t scrape together that kind of cash in a hurry, I wondered what incentives CJ might consider—bricks through the window, newly laundered shirts smeared with Viagra’s feces or perhaps the stiff body of a white mini Chi festively wrapped like a Christmas gift.
I was lying with my nose jammed into a pile of dirty socks, considering the options, when the door chimes jangled. Outside, the wind was blowing fiercely. It caught the door and held it open long enough for the linoleum to be newly carpeted with leaves, fast food wrappers and cigarette butts.
“Fucking shit, just when I was ready to get out of here,” Suzie threw the broom on the floor and heaved the door shut.
“Suzie!” screeched Mrs. Lin. “What matter with you? No filthy talk in shop. You apologize to Missy Zoya.”
Zoya. Her name was adrenaline. I wanted to jump out of the basket and wrap my paws around her leg. Instead, even though my body was quivering, I lay still, opening my eyes just a slit. Once again Zoya was decked out in my wardrobe. My death had been her fashion opportunity. I wondered if Charmaine had given her my things to enjoy the naughty thrill of pretending she was bossing me around.
Zoya was wearing my black leather bomber jacket with the fox collar, a short red wool skirt—once a favorite of Larry’s and high black suede boots. The boots were a size too small and her thighs, sheathed in black lace pantyhose, bulged over the top. How she reconciled this tarty outfit with her religious predilections was a mystery. She had an uncharacteristically goth look. Her hair, which was usually carefully styled, looked wild and unkempt. The wind had whipped it into a nest of tangles. There was an inch of dark roots showing. Her skin looked as pasty as biscuit dough, and her eyes were hollow and purple smudged. She was dragging an overstuffed laundry bag. A tower of dry cleaning balanced precariously in her arms.
“Hey, sweetheart, what happened? You look different,” said Mrs. Lin diplomatically.
“Those two, they treat me like a servant.”
I sniggered, wondering what new title Zoya’s imperious imagination might have conjured. She used to refer to herself as my Domestic Assistant.
“They just came back from Europe. I stayed with little girl for three weeks. She so sad because her mama died, all she do is cry, and Mr. Larry leave her all alone.”
The thought of Lucille still grieving was a quick jab in the ribs that left me breathless. When Larry and I hooked up, I was too busy going out to parties and clubs to pay attention to her.
Sadly, her biological mother hadn’t been into parenting either. Veronica lived for danger. Being half-Chinese and half-Filipina put her in great demand as one of a handful of stunt women with a multi-ethnic look.
Larry had dumped Veronica for me. When Veronica found out he was cheating, she dumped Lucille. She sent Larry an email saying that she had gone on location and would be back for the kid in two weeks. Even to me—someone who considered children unfortunate appendages—distressing as a supernumerary finger or toe, this abandonment screamed Mommy Dearest. And I tried, in whatever small ways I could, to comfort Lucille.
After Veronica had been gone for a month, Larry hired a private detective. Tracking her down turned out to be easy. Her death made all the tabloids. She was escaping from a flaming helicopter when the fire got out of control.
Larry looked bereaved when he heard the news. Several days later, when the detective drew a blank for Lucille’s next of kin, he suggested that Veronica faked her death to get rid of Lucille and threatened to call Child Welfare.
Although I was not interested in playing mommy, I thought of Lucille as a much younger cousin or maybe even a little sister, a convenient companion for whom I had no serious responsibilities. Plus I was certain that Larry and I were a better alternative than foster care. I was able to buy Lucille time by reminding Larry that we hardly ever saw her. Now Lucille’s days in Neverland were numbered.
“Poor baby. No good to watch movies all day, and I got no time to play with her,” said Zoya.
“Sweetheart, that why someday this city gonna be run by people like us. We got family values,” said Mrs. Lin, landing a double header with a play to both Zoya’s political and religious affiliations.
“That new girlfriend faxed me a list long as your arm, stuff I had to polish and shine before they came home—silver, marble, granite and shoes, hers and Mr. Larry’s. She even want me to polish the leaves on the plants with a special oil. Ridiculous! Too bad their souls aren’t as shiny as that house. Just look at all these clothes! I already did three loads of laundry at home. I tell her I can’t do no more. I’m outsourcing.”
“That right, sweetheart. You stand up for you. Be own number one best customer,” Mrs. Lin gave Zoya a conspiratorial wink.
Zoya dropped the dry cleaning on the counter with a huff like a weightlifter releasing a barbell.
“Suzie, sort laundry,” said Mrs. Lin. “Missy Zoya don’t have all day. Why I always have to ask you?”
Suzie started pulling clothes out of the laundry bag and tossing them over the counter into various bins.
Watching the deflating bag, I had a flash of inspiration. My ticket out of the Lucky Dream was punched. If I was careful, within minutes I would be living in much more comfortable quarters.
“Suzie, stop throwing clothes around. Bring bag back here and sort.”
Thankfully, as usual, Suzie paid no attention. She finished sorting and left the empty bag on the floor. Everyone was too engrossed in Zoya and the laundry to notice me. The lip of the bag was just a few feet away. I got down on my haunches and waited. I had two minutes before Zoya would pick up the bag and be gone for another four weeks.
“Hey, Suzie,” said Mrs. Lin. “You got some of those ginseng tablets I gave you? I want to give a couple to Missy Zoya. She need some zip. I bet they in your backpack.”
“No, Ma, I’m all out.”
“I gave you jumbo bottle. You got to have some left.”
Suzie’s face went white, and she moved toward the backpack she had left lying on the floor behind the counter. But Mrs. Lin beat her to it. Within seconds she had extracted CDs, crumpled packs of cigarettes, chewing gum and a blow-dryer. Twisted tubes of half- used makeup littered the floor.
“Hey, what this?”
An opened cardboard box dangled between Mrs. Lin’s thumb and index finger. She held it away from her like it was vermin.
“EPT—what that mean? Let me guess. Early… pregnancy…test. Somebody pregnant around here?”
I had never heard Mrs. Lin enunciate so clearly. She delivered that line with a venomous sarcasm worthy of one of her favorite soap-opera stars. Eyebrows raised, lips drawn back and chest puffed, she looked like a dragon ready to extinguish the hapless Suzie with her breath of fire.
The Lucky Dream was silent except for the click of hangers in the draft and Suzie’s panting. For a moment, I was riveted by the unfolding drama. But Zoya was nervously shuffling her feet. This was more information about the Lin family than she was prepared to assimilate. She was ready to bolt. I took a deep breath, aimed my nose at the opened bag and slithered in. My tail had just cleared the rim when I felt Zoya pull the drawstring and sling the bag over her shoulder. I slid to the bottom. Zoya gave the bag a shake as if she was about to check for a forgotten shirt. I willed my body to be weightless, which is not a stretch, when you weigh only 2 pounds. After an agonizing minute, I heard Zoya’s parting advice to Suzie and Mrs. Lin.
“Put your faith in Jehovah. He is the master.” The door chimes jangled, and we were on our way.
Chapter 6
“Were an Asiatic to ask me for a definition of Europe, I should be forced to answer him: It is that part of the world which is haunted by the incredible delusion that man was created out of nothing, and that his present birth is his first entrance into life.”
Arthur Schopenhauer
I partied with luck, and disaster came along for the ride. My amazing opportunity quickly became a nightmare. I was trapped in a cold, dark, airless space. Zoya had dropped the laundry bag into a wicker hamper inside the hall linen closet. I wriggled out of the bag, but the lid on the hamper was closed and too high to reach. I exhausted myself trying. My legs ached from jumping, and my paws were scratched from sliding against the sides of the hamper. Eventually I gave up. The condominium was silent. I imagined Zoya’s screams and confusion when she opened the hamper and found me, and I wondered how long it would be until she came. If I had not died of thirst or starvation, perhaps she would return me to Mrs. Lin no worse for the wear. I tried not to blame myself for being impetuous. After all, when you must choose between two piles of shit, it’s hard to judge which one smells the best.
In the absence of light, black becomes a kaleidoscope. I distracted myself by watching red turn to violet and dissolve back into black. Once again, in a moment of desperation, Sugar crept into my consciousness. Her doggish optimism became a strategy for survival. The hamper began to seem more like a hiding place than a trap. My thoughts settled, time passed, and I grew drowsy.
As I drifted into sleep, I saw Richard’s face. It wavered as if I was looking at him through water. I tried to bring him closer—to fall deeper into the dream. I made myself still and prayed that nothing would wake me.
The scene grew clearer. We were sitting opposite each other at our favorite restaurant. There were flowers on the table, rust and ivory calla lilies. A bottle of champagne in an icy bucket waited beside us. Richard was holding my hand. His thumb was stroking my palm. Between us, in the center of the table, was a small blue-velvet box. It glowed. A waiter came to take our order. I looked up from my menu to see Larry. He laughed in his horsy way. That nasal braying echoed through the room. Richard said, “We’re not ready. Leave us alone for a moment.” Larry walked away. Richard looked at me and said, “It’s a great menu, so many choices.” I tried to stay with this vision and, for once in my life, make the right choice. But some small sound disrupted my concentration, and, in an instant, it vanished.
When I opened my eyes, something was different. Through the wicker, I saw a very faint shadow. The hall light was on. I heard a pattern of thuds that diminished and increased as if someone was tossing a ball back and forth down the hall. No longer caring who found me, I barked wildly and scratched on the sides of the hamper. The noise stopped, and there were footsteps. The closet door opened. I kept barking and scratching. Finally, the top of the hamper opened. The light was blinding. I shook myself. Something tickled the tops of my ears. I blinked and looked up. Lucille’s braids, like silky black ropes, framed her smiling face.
“What’s this?” she squealed. She picked me up and kissed me on the nose. I licked her face. I was so happy to see her that I forgot Sugar. All I wanted was to put my arms around her, and the impossibility of this ordinary pleasure was devastating.
“You are so beautiful,” said Lucille. “You are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. How did you get here? I know, Santa brought you early. He heard my prayers. Larry and Charmaine said Santa doesn’t bring dogs. But I knew he would hear me. Zoya says prayer works miracles, so I prayed to Santa every night for you.”
She put me down on the floor, but she couldn’t stop petting me. Mrs. Lin often treated me like a naughty child. It was surprising to feel so completely adored. “Doggy, watch what I can do,” Lucille said, excitement lighting her voice. She was wearing her gymnastics clothes, a black leotard and pink ballet tights. Her mother had sent her to tumbling classes as soon as she could walk. Veronica used to write her postcards from places like Bali and Mumbai. They always began “Dear mini Me” and ended with some athletic admonition like “keep practicing your vaults. Remember you’re golden—as in medal—ha ha!” Lucille had them all pinned to her bulletin board.
“You’ll like this,” she said.
I sat up straighter, trying to be a perfect audience.
Lucille walked to the end of the hall. She turned her back to me. Standing very straight, she raised her arms above her head. Then she bent her knees and hurled herself into the air, executing a series of backflips down the hall. She landed as if her feet were magnets and took off as though gravity had suddenly released her. With each jump, she flew higher. My heart was in my mouth. One misstep could easily have snapped her ankle. The flips were followed by several cartwheels, with the finale being a walk on her hands. I was mightily impressed. There was a bravery and confidence in this performance that I had never noticed before. I wanted to clap for her and tell her how graceful and strong she was. I thought of all the times I actually could have done this. She used to beg me to come to her gymnastics meets, but I always had something better to do, so I sent Zoya.
“Okay, that’s all,” she said breathlessly and scooped me into her arms. “They’ll be home soon. I don’t want them to find you. You’re mine. They’ll never take you away.”
Riding next to Lucille’s chest, I felt her heart beating from the exertion of the acrobatics, and I was paralyzed with emotion. It was both strange and comforting to be in my former home. I was an immigrant in my own country, someone who had forgotten her native language and was looking at a familiar landscape with a stranger’s eyes. The irony of Lucille guiding me through this supersized outback made me long to throw back my head and laugh.
“What should I call you?” Lucille said, patting my nose. “Oh, let’s see, you have a tag here. My name is Sugar. I belong to Mrs. Ruby Lin, 1245 Clark St.” she read. Her voice dropped with every word. “Sugar, that’s a nice name. But you don’t need this tag anymore. Santa wants you to stay here.”
Chapter 7
“The souls must reenter the absolute substance whence they have emerged. But to accomplish this, they must develop all the perfections, the germ of which is planted in them; and if they have not fulfilled this condition during one life, they must commence another, a third, and so forth, until they have acquired the condition which fits them for reunion with God.”
Zohar, one of the principal Cabalistic texts
I had been living in the pink glow of Lucille’s bedroom for about a week. Each evening, we sat in the window watching the clouds turn from blush to mauve and dissolve into dark. Lucille held me up so I could glimpse the city shimmering like a fairy- tale kingdom far below. She seemed to understand that I needed to see the world outside.
While Lucille was gone, I spent the hours sleeping in her walk-in closet, breathing the comforting scent of little girl. The rest of the time I was snuggled beside her under a puffy duvet and masses of down pillows. With my eyes closed, I could almost believe that I was back in my own bed just down the hall. I didn’t know how long we had until I would be discovered. It’s not easy to hide a dog, even one that is very tiny. Lucille fed me table scraps, little snacks she stole from the kitchen or the occasional packet of dry food she picked up at the convenience store. Sometimes she snuck me outside under her coat. But I surprised us both by mastering a tricky maneuver that involved jumping from a stepstool to a hamper and then onto the toilet seat, where I balanced precariously. A fall might have been fatal. Perhaps I was learning gymnastics by osmosis.
While this was a big improvement over the laundry basket at the Lucky Dream, I was tormented. The sound of Charmaine’s heels clicking down the hall and the stench of the sugary perfume that poisoned her atmosphere made my anger so fierce that I believed it could actually rearrange my molecules. Sometimes I heard Larry’s horsey laugh or caught a whiff of cigar smoke and scotch, and I cursed the karma that made me a Barbie dog instead of a pit bull.
My outrage was not entirely selfish; it was also for Lucille, who lived in this house like a lonely ghost—registered by Larry and Charmaine as a vague, slightly distasteful presence. The strangeness of being a dog was compounded by my new role as Lucille’s only friend. I licked the salty tears off her face when she wept over Veronica’s goofy stunt films. I sat in he
r lap while she wrote in her electronic diary. The diary was an exciting discovery. I learned a lot about Lucille. Who knew that she was so smart? Although she had enough dolls to start a branch of American Girl, she never touched them. Instead, she was glued to the laptop Veronica had bought her for her last birthday. When she was not writing, she played computer chess, Scrabble and those creepy role-playing games. I had been addicted to TV as a ten-year-old, so the games seemed advanced, but perhaps she was one of those idiot savants or autistic. Anyway, her chronological age was irrelevant compared to her precarious situation and, by extension, my own.
I had never thought much about children. I had imagined kids as having the Disney Channel constantly running in their heads, their minds filled with cheery cartoons. So I was shocked and alarmed by Lucille’s desperation, as well as by the developments that were unfolding around us. This distressing posting came on the heels of another bone-chilling occurrence.
Dear Diary,
Yesterday, something bad happened. A lady named Mrs. Fletcher came to see me. Zoya said she is from Child Services. She was ugly and fat with gray hair cut like a man and big yellow teeth. She asked me lots of questions about what I like and don’t like. She said I’m lucky to be Asian. There is a nice family that wants me to come and stay with them. I don’t want to go anywhere. I like it here. I’m just sad. But I’ll be sadder in another place. They can’t make me go. If they try, Sugar and I will run away. Later, Sugar and I watched The Ninja Warrior’s Revenge. It’s my favorite. Mommy looks so beautiful in her gold costume. I love Mommy and Sugar. She did backflips off a cliff and killed a bunch of evil guys with a Samurai sword. I know she is dead, but I want her to come back. If she won’t come back, I want to be with her. I wonder where she is. Zoya says she is resting with our blessed savior. But I don’t believe that. If Santa brought me Sugar, maybe he can bring back Mommy. I will keep looking in the laundry hamper. Christmas is coming soon. Maybe Mommy will come back. Then she can take me and Sugar to live with her in California. I could become a child stunt star. I just know that I could. My backflips are really amazing, and I just learned how to balance upside-down on one hand. Sugar could be my sidekick. We’ll all be rich and famous!