Chihuahua Karma

by Rice, Debby

  A stowaway lives minute-by-minute with the fear of discovery. But reading about Lucille’s visit from the child welfare service made my current accommodations seem even more tenuous. I sensed the snaggle-toothed Mrs. Fletcher lurking in the wings, waiting to drag Lucille kicking and screaming to some badly scripted version of her future. Although I was certain that Larry and Charmaine set the wheels in motion, an unlikely person was doing her best to accelerate the process. Zoya had convinced herself that Larry and Charmaine’s pagan lifestyle was a dangerous threat to Lucille’s immortal soul. From my hiding place in the closet I overheard her say, “They doing evil in this house. Jehovah does not abide here. But don’t worry, baby. I gonna help Mrs. Fletcher find you a good Witness family.” She had probably already selected the prayerful household where Lucille could look forward to a pristine soul and a future without Christmas presents or blood transfusions. Since Zoya never seemed particularly enthusiastic about her nanny duties, I had to wonder what had inspired this sudden concern for Lucille’s welfare.

  Mrs. Fletcher was not the only unwelcome visitor. When you are riddled with disease, waiting for your lethal injection on Death Row or trapped inside the body of a very tiny dog, you long for just one thing—a kernel of hope that could blossom into a happy ending. That seed, no matter how fragile, can transform any experience, even one that is profoundly disturbing, into a vision of liberation. Don Paco’s horrific reappearance was that sort of twisted good news.

  I was lying in the back of the closet on a pile of Lucille’s old gym shoes, feeling too nervous to sleep, when my nose began to tingle. The irritating feeling shimmied down my backbone to my tail. I stood up, twisted around in circles and lay down again. But I only became increasingly agitated. I could not hold still. My bones were tuning forks. I imagined this was how it felt to accidentally swallow a death cap mushroom or get bitten by a cobra. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the sensory deluge stopped, and I heard that three-pack-a-day voice. It was close beside me whispering in my ear.

  “Hola, chula. ¿Qué tal?”

  I have always thought of Spanish, with its chimichangas and burritos, as a happy language. But Don Paco’s greeting conjured a sewer and all its slimy contents. “Hola” was a pack of rats devouring moldy Big Macs.

  “Don Paco,” I said, trying not to sound disturbed. “This is too weird. What are you doing here?”

  “Payback time.”

  And even without Mrs. Dichter’s mediumistic interpretation, I saw his thick lips curl into the kind of smile that every woman recognizes.

  “Payback for what?” I said, trying to sound stupid.

  “You got a really short memory, chiquita. I been working my ass off, and now I’m ready for a little T&A with my R&R.

  “Oh, my God. There are children here, Don Paco,”

  I felt a massive hand engulf my left breast. It rested there for a moment and then the splayed fingers contracted and squeezed like someone testing a piece of fruit.

  Being fondled by the undead is disgusting in a way that is indescribable. But Don Paco unlocked a dimension where Cherry existed in Sugar’s shadow. The idea that he held the key to this marvelous realm made the groping bearable. I held my breath as the hand slithered around my waist and down my back.

  “Melones perfectas,” he murmured.

  “All right, the fruit stand is opened for business,” I said.

  “You got a good sense of humor. I like that.”

  Another smart remark was on the tip of my tongue, but the cautionary memory of Don Paco’s anger-management issues made me choose a repulsive but more productive tack. “Honey, you certainly know how to pick your produce,” I purred. (Being a Chihuahua that can purr was just one more irony of my strange situation.)

  “Yes, I guess I have a weakness for blondes. I like you so much that I got a deal for you, something that might help you lose the containment vessel.”

  “Whatever you can tell me, I would appreciate it so, so very much.” Fortunately, I was able to stop myself before the words “I’ll do anything” crossed my lips. God knows what sort of third-dimensional voodoo spell that might have triggered.

  “We got a situation.”

  “Something beyond my being a dog and you being a ghost?” I asked.

  “Don’t get smart. I could handle this without you.”

  “No disrespect intended. I’m all ears.” Which, for me, was sadly no longer a figure of speech.

  “Remember what I said about baggage? Well, some people got a whole lot more than others. There’s a certain lady that crossed over, but she’s not moving up the ladder. Instead, la loca is hanging around with you.”

  “With me? What are you talking about?”

  “She won’t leave that little girl.”

  “You mean Lucille? Is Veronica here? I haven’t seen her.”

  “Oh, she’s here, and she gonna cause some big trouble unless she move on. Anyway, around here they know I got a way with las chicas.”

  I had to repress the urge to snort.

  “The higher-ups told me that if I get her to pass over, they’ll cancel my contract with Trudy and move me up to my next level.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Where do I fit in?” I asked, trying not to sound overeager. I didn’t want him misinterpreting my enthusiasm to escape for a genuine desire to collaborate.

  “You’re gonna help me help get la loca to move on.”

  “And what do I get out of the deal?”

  “Well, it looks like you’ll get an EM.”

  “Earthly Mission, right?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s my EM? Do you know? Can you tell me?” I was so elated I could hardly speak. Instead, I yelped in pain as his thumb and index finger closed around a chunk of my ass. He pinched so hard that tears came to my eyes. Then he was gone.

  “Sugar, Sugar. What’s wrong? Stop barking. They’re gonna find you.”

  Lucille switched on the closet light. She leaned over me, her braids tickling the tops of my ears.

  “Poor baby. Did you have a bad dream? Don’t cry, little doggie. I love you, and I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”

  As I gazed adoringly into Lucille’s saucer eyes, I wondered how I could possibly have missed the neon EM sign blazing across her forehead. Although Veronica had been incinerated, apparently she was not gone. She had joined Don Paco in the bureaucracy of the undead and from that shadowy vantage point was still attempting to advance her little clone’s career. I agreed with her. Gymnastics definitely had more to offer than Jehovah, and I vowed to go to my own personal mat to keep Lucille on the balance beam. We had a bargain. I was Lucille’s protector, and she was mine. With this knowledge came a sinking feeling. Had I been Lassie or even that insipid little faux dog, Mr. Winkle (is the pot calling the kettle black?), my ability to rescue Lucille from a dingy future of greedy adults pimping phony religion would have seemed more certain. But as a mini Chi nobody living in a closet, I didn’t have much confidence in my abilities. I imagined her becoming a sallow-skinned teenager with a prodigious knowledge of reality TV shows. I thought the very best that Mrs. Fletcher could possibly offer was a dumbed-down version of life at the Lucky Dream.

  In the next instant, my epiphany was shattered. Lucille picked me up and carried me out of the closet. She was holding me against her chest when the bedroom door opened like a sprung trap. No one visits Lucille after 7:00. The air shivered in anticipation. First came Zoya and in her wake followed Charmaine. The baby-faced shopgirl had been so transformed by ego and disposable income that I hardly recognized her. She strode in with the authority of a diva. Swathed in black cashmere, Charmaine stared down at us from the teetering heights of thigh-high boots. Rocks flashed from her fingers. Platinum cuffs encircled each wrist. She had been pumped and pummeled into pneumatic overdrive. Breasts and butt strained against their high-end swaddling. Zoya cowered behind her imperious mistress. And with them came an invisible familiar. I felt its icy tentacles cautiou
sly extend, seeking to gain purchase. The stuffed animals shrank into their pillows, and the dolls shuddered.

  Charmaine flicked her tongue over her lips and attempted a botoxy smile. She sucked in her breath and launched what was obviously a prepared speech: “Hi, Lucille, honey. Zoya and I just came to take an inventory of your clothes for Mrs. Fletcher. She needs a…” Mid-sentence, she noticed me and stopped talking. Her eyes narrowed. I could tell she was trying to determine whether Lucille was holding a plush toy or an animal.

  “Where did you get that dog?” she snapped. “It’s real, isn’t it? You know our rule. Nothing with more than two legs comes in the door. Hand it over right now, missy. Zoya, if you had anything to do with this, I’m going to be very disappointed and so will Mr. Larry. We’ve told her at least a dozen times she cannot have a dog.”

  I felt the breath being squeezed out of me. Lucille was crushing me so hard against herself that I yelped.

  “Yoooooou caaan’t haave her! She’s mine! Santa gave her to me!” Lucille wailed. I looked into her eyes and saw them fill with tears.

  “Lucille, don’t you remember what I told you about Santa? He is for babies. Are you a baby? I don’t think so. Big girls don’t believe in silly things like that. You better tell me the truth about where that animal came from.”

  “I found her in the laundry hamper.”

  “The laundry hamper. Oh, please. You can do better than that.”

  “Oh,” I heard Zoya whisper under her breath, “that look like...”

  And then, just when I thought she was about to send me back to my nightmare at the Lucky Dream, she said. “I don’t know where that dog came from, Miss Charmaine. I never seen it before.”

  “Can’t I please keep her, Charmaine? She’s my best friend.”

  “Lucille, your mother would want you to have other children for friends, not dogs. And pretty soon I think you’re going to have a whole group of little neighbors to play with. Besides, this looks like a mini Chi. It’s a very expensive breed. These dogs go for over $2,000 from a breeder. Brittany McFearson has one, and she got it insured. Even if we could keep the dog, you’re not responsible enough to care for such a tiny, precious creature. I will admit, she’s awfully cute. She’d look great with my new bag. Maybe, just maybe… I can’t promise, but I’ll talk to Larry. I think if he sees this sweet little puppers, he’ll let her stay with me for a while.” She tried valiantly to cock an eyebrow.

  “My mom’s dead, but she would want me to keep Sugar. I know she would.”

  “Passed away. ‘Dead’ is rude. We say passed away—that’s the last time I’m correcting you, and please don’t whine. Now give me the dog.”

  I could feel Lucille weighing her nonexistent options. Then her body sank, and she dropped me into Charmaine’s outstretched hands.

  “Whooo, you’re so adorable.”

  Charmaine tossed me up and down like a ball, then squeezed me so hard her rings and fingernails stabbed my belly. She held me close enough to smell the mixture of Ultra-white gum and vodka on her breath. And underneath the minty fragrance, there was another familiar scent. Curse my canine snout. I hated to admit that I recognized the stench of Larry’s saliva.

  Lucille was sobbing now. No one had offered a tissue, and she was using her sleeve to wipe away the tears.

  “Listen, missy, you just stop that crying. Look at this beautiful room and all these toys and that laptop and the flat screen. There is just nothing to cry about. Larry’s going to let you take all this stuff with you. Let me give you a little advice. When I got runner-up in the Ms. Waco Texas Taco Bell Baton Team Spirit Competition, my mother told me, ‘Charmaine, if life feeds you lemons, you make lemonade.’ Now, Lucille, you just sit here and think about how you can make some lemonade. And I know you’re lying about where this dog came from. Lying is a very nasty habit. You will go to hell for lying. Just ask Zoya about hell. She’s got plenty to say on that topic.”

  Can someone dressed like the Mayflower Madame sound like a Baptist preacher? Apparently, the answer is yes.

  Charmaine clasped me to her breast. My impulse was to make the leap of death from her stranglehold to the floor, but it was a long way down. Suffocating in her cleavage, I was whisked from the room.

  Chapter 8

  “Why should we be startled by death? Life is a constant putting off of the mortal coil—coat, cuticle, flesh and bones, all old clothes.”

  Henry David Thoreau

  “You are such a cute little poochie woochie. I think I’ll just keep you for myself. I will. I will.” Charmaine held me up to her face and kissed me on the nose. Then she dropped me back into her lap.

  She would not leave me alone. If dogs have a limited attention span, it undoubtedly results from eons of constant interruption. I was on perpetual instant message, expected to respond at her beck and call. “Sugar, come to Mommy. Fetch the toy. Time for a walk.” It was endless.

  We were sitting in the double-wide, reclining leather swivel chair with thermal cup holder that used to be mine. I had been trying to determine whether ghosts have a smell and if I could sniff out Veronica from her hiding place in the condo. Don Paco did not have a physical scent like sweat or skin. But he always seemed to be enveloped in an after-hours fog of cigarettes and alcohol. Perhaps Veronica smelled like gasoline or some other combustible substance. I inhaled deeply and followed threads of leather, hairspray, cigar smoke, taco chips and beer, trying to detect some residue of scorched metal, but there was nothing unusual in the atmosphere. Maybe Veronica would smell like Lucille. And there was another frustrating dilemma. How would I fulfill my EM if I never saw her? Charmaine was not into sharing and had been deliberately keeping me away from Lucille.

  “Charmaine, I can’t hear the game with you talking to that dog,” said Larry.

  “Couldn’t we watch a movie for a change? Even one of those mob films would be better than this stupid game.” Charmaine picked a remote out of the pile on the coffee table and tossed it from one hand to the other as if trying to decide whether she felt up for sabotage.

  The media room had surround sound, and it was on full volume. But the Bulls were losing to the Lakers, and Larry takes it personally when a Chicago team is the underdog. So he was in a funk, and Charmaine’s puppy-talk was undoubtedly adding to his irritation.

  “Larry, we need to redo this room. It looks like a man cave.” She had the wheedling tone of a child who is deliberately overreaching.

  “Can you let me watch the game for five minutes? I already feel like I’m living in a reality competition for wannabe decorators.”

  “Here, take Sugar while I get a Coke.” Charmaine held me out to Larry like a sacrificial offering. The idea of feeling his sausage fingers grasping my belly was repulsive.

  “Did you hear that? It growled at me. I don’t want to hold it. It probably has fleas. We don’t know where it came from.”

  “Her name is Sugar, and she does not have fleas,” said Charmaine clutching me, the drink already forgotten.

  “Why don’t you take it to the vet just to be sure? Get it a flea dip. I own an extermination business. I can’t have an infestation in my house.”

  “That’s ridiculous. But I probably should have her checked out. It would be terrible to get attached and then have something go wrong. We got a cat from the pound once, and it died of distemper after three days.”

  I wondered what she planned to do if my health was less than perfect. Nordstrom does not sell dogs, so there wasn’t much possibility of a return.

  “Who do you think I should take her to?”

  “There’s a dog in every unit in this building. There should be plenty of vets in the neighborhood.”

  I didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. Richard was the possible carrot. A flea bath was the stick. But drowning in insecticide would be a small price to pay to see him again.

  “I don’t want to take her to just anyone.”

  “My new connection, CJ, is into dogs. He lives ove
r on the West Side, but he might know somebody. I’ll call him.” Larry took his phone out of his shirt pocket.

  I should have been surprised to hear that CJ was Larry’s most recent supplier of pharmaceuticals, but I wasn’t. Larry is on an endless quest for stronger weed at a cheaper price, and the fact that CJ’s was the flavor of the month seemed perfectly in keeping with the many strange karmic twists of my new existence.

  “Hey, CJ. Larry Finkelstein... Yeah, yeah, it’s great stuff. The best I’ve had in a long time. Charmaine, turn that TV down.”

  Charmaine fumbled with the pile of remotes again. She poked one, then another, but the TV was still blaring. When she finally located the correct device, Larry got irritated and grabbed it out of her hand.

  “That’s better. Listen, my girlfriend just got a dog, and she wants a vet to check it out. Got any recommendations for someone around here?” Larry made writing motions to Charmaine, and she produced a paper napkin and a pen.

  “Okay, thanks, man. I’ll be in touch. Maybe we’ll play poker soon.”

  “Here you go,” said Larry, handing Charmaine the napkin. “It’s right down the street. Why don’t you run over there now?”

  (“Leave me alone to watch the game” was the obvious subtext of this conversation.) I was thrilled to see that Larry’s shiny new toy was so quickly losing her luster.