Chihuahua Karma

by Rice, Debby

  We took a cab several blocks. Zoya paid the driver, and I was expecting to be released to wander around Chi Couture’s doggie-centric showroom, sampling bottled waters from granite drinking bowls and high-end dog treats presented like tapas on tiny serving trays. The Peanut Butter Puppy Poppers and liver brownies are favorites.

  Actually, I had mixed feelings about Chi Couture. It was a dog’s wet dream. But my enjoyment reminded me of how rapidly I was slipping into canine consciousness. Here is an embarrassing and uncomfortable confession: There were moments when a certain musky scent drew my attention like a magnet to a male dog. I wanted to look away, but it was impossible. This told me that Cherry might be fading into Sugar’s shadow. My human neurons were a precious yet vanishing commodity.

  I was eagerly waiting to feel the competent hands of the Chi Couture staff (all experienced dog trainers) gently lift me from the carrier and set me on the heated dressing table. Instead, the carrier jolted. Through the plastic shell, I felt the chill of the sidewalk.

  Zoya rang a doorbell. There was a faint buzzing, like a fly’s drone. She leaned on the door. It clicked opened and slammed shut. She picked up the carrier and began climbing a flight of creaky stairs. From the mixture of depressing smells, I knew we were in one of those dingy walk-ups that’s waiting for the developer’s wrecking ball. The stink of industrial-strength roach killer was mixed with the odor of cooking oil, spices from long-ago meals and a subtle whiff of garbage. Zoya knocked. I heard footsteps, and the door opened. Through the plastic window, I saw Mrs. Fletcher’s bulky outline. She opened the door and a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted into the hall.

  “Hello, Zoya. Thanks for making the trip over.” She sounded out of breath, as if she’d just climbed the stairs with us.

  “No problem, Iris.”

  “What’s in the case?”

  “Oh, it just Miss Charmaine’s dog. She treat this puppy like a baby. They’re sewing a special dress for it in some fancy dog store. Crazy Americans. In Russia, we like real animal for pet.”

  Zoya muttered the part about Americans under her breath, as her hostess was clearly not exempt.

  “I love dogs. Sure wish I could have one,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “It would be good company. But I’m gone so much. Let’s see ’im.” Her enthusiasm sounded genuine.

  Zoya unzipped the carrier and Iris Fletcher reached inside and pulled me out.

  “You’re an itty-bitty feller, ain’t you?” she said, holding me up to her face and wiggling me from side to side. A cigarette dangled from her lip. Her gray hair, which looked like it hadn’t seen a comb for a couple of days, was oddly adorned with two purple silk bows clipped at either temple. She was wearing a purple sweat suit, and pinned to the front of the jacket was a large metal button that said “Purple Power.” I wondered what the provenance of such an item could be. Was it the insignia of a Masonic group like the Order of the Eastern Star, a political statement or something she had made for herself?

  “Is a girl,” corrected Zoya.

  “Well, you run around and have fun, little feller. Make yourself at home while we do business. How about a cup of coffee, Zoya? I got some Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “No. Sorry, I no drink coffee, praise Jehovah.”

  “Well, tea?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I got Diet Coke.”

  “Maybe some juice.”

  I wasn’t sure where Mrs. Fletcher planned to serve these refreshments. Every surface in the apartment was covered with junk. The windows were obscured by spindly plants pressed up against the filthy glass as if they were gasping for a breath of fresh air. There were piles of newspapers, file folders, magazines, mail, dirty dishes, cigarette packs, dusty unopened boxes of cheap children’s toys, cans of food, grocery bags full of what looked like more paper and, in the middle of her kitchen table, an enormous orange ceramic ashtray overflowing with stinky butts. A TV with the sound off was tuned to the shopping channel.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to clean up. Like I said, I’m not here very much. Do most of my business at the office. But since this meeting is kinda special, I thought you should come by. Gets a little messy, but I do love my collections and my plants. They’re my babies. Can’t bear to throw a thing away. Anyway, hope you aren’t one of those fussy anti-smoking fanatics. Nowhere to light up these days except a street corner or the privacy of your home. Government can’t keep out of our personal business. But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

  Zoya managed a tight grin. She moved a stack of papers off a plastic chair and seated herself, gingerly like patient recovering from a hemorrhoidectomy.

  “Okey Dokey, Zoya, let’s talk turkey.” Mrs. Fletcher sank her long yellow teeth into a pink frosted donut and washed it down with a swig of coffee from one of the filthy cups that littered the table.

  Zoya winced.

  “You got a nice little package. Lots of people want a smart Asian kid, especially one who might be Olympic material. They have a great track record for law, medicine and finance without the usual mental baggage that comes with adopting older kids. We can all be winners on this deal, including your little fortune cookie. Howard, the attorney I work with, tells me the prospects are very wealthy. Their kid, who was a science genius, got hit by a car and died, and they can’t have any more of their own. They would prefer a boy but are willing to consider any white or Asian, healthy, intelligent and not completely screwed-up alternative. They’re especially interested in Lucille’s gymnastics.

  “Now, they got a few little issues that make them ineligible through the regular channels. I can’t really share that information with you. I’ll just say it’s a small-potato kinda of thing. Not even really worth mentioning. Child Welfare has some pretty strict rules—you and I probably couldn’t even pass muster. Howard and I are offering you $500 to help facilitate this deal and forget that we detoured the system a little. I’ll tell you that most of the approved prospects can’t offer financial advantages like Howard’s clients.”

  Mrs. Fletcher adjusted one of her bows and looked at Zoya expectantly. “Hey, I forgot. Howard gave me this picture of them. Now, if I can just find it.” She shuffled through the mess on the table and extracted a manila file folder covered with cigarette ashes. “Okey dokey, here they be. You can see for yourself what a nice-looking couple they are.”

  Zoya took the picture and frowned. “They kind of old, no?”

  “Oh, I suspect that’s just the camera. You know what they say—the camera adds ten years.”

  “Sorry, Iris, you’re right. We got lots of offers. I been taking care of Lucille for long time and I want to make sure she get nice wholesome family.”

  “Well, Zoya honey…” Mrs. Fletcher paused, sucked on her cigarette and munched thoughtfully on her donut. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. There are other kids in the world. In fact, I got two little white-boy twins who lost their parents in a plane crash. They’re just dying to have a new mommy and daddy. The prospects don’t really want twins, but they could be persuaded, or I could split ’em. I’d hate to see Lucille miss out on a happy landing because you got greedy.”

  “Five hundred dollars? Are you trying to insult us, Iris? Maybe I leave right now. Lucille going to be famous gymnast someday. I know talent. I studied as child with best coach in St. Petersburg. And you want to give me $500? I the person making sure that she stay okay during this transition, and I got to get what my time is worth. So $5,000 seems right to me.” Zoya reached for her purse as if getting ready to leave.

  “Hang on there, Zoya honey. Don’t get all huffy. You sure drive a hard bargain. You want to cut out all my profit. Howard’s a personal friend, but he has to get something,” said Mrs. Fletcher in a well-practiced poor-me tone. “But, you know what? I like you and I like that kid. She’s quiet and don’t seem like she’ll be any trouble. I hate it when the kid doesn’t live up to expectations and the deal goes south. Trust me, that’s a bad business for everyone. But I’m sure l
ittle Lucille will make them very happy. Call it $2,500 and we’re even.” Mrs. Fletcher slapped her palm on the table as if to seal the deal. Then she brushed off the front of her sweatshirt, and a blizzard of donut crumbs fell to the floor. “Come and get it, puppy,” she called to me.

  I was curled up at Zoya’s feet, too shocked and depressed to move. I didn’t know what kind of “small potato” problem would prevent a couple from adopting through the usual channels, but I could imagine Lucille as the victim of any number of horrendous scenarios.

  “What’s a matter little feller? Dunkin’ Donuts too good for you? Ha, ha. Looks like he don’t feel too good.” Mrs. Fletcher reached down and patted me. “So, Zoya, what about half now and half when we make the transaction? Howard’s clients are in Munich for the holidays. They travel a lot. They’ll be back on January 2. Can you have Lucille ready by then?”

  “I didn’t agree yet,” said Zoya.

  “Oh, honey, this isn’t some alley in Moscow. Let’s not waste time with all this bargaining.”

  “I told you I from St. Petersburg. Very cultural city.”

  “No offense intended, honey. I don’t know my geography. But I got a busy afternoon planned, so let’s get this deal done.”

  “Okay,” sighed Zoya.

  “Just let me find a pen and the checkbook,” said Mrs. Fletcher, pushing papers off the table and onto the floor. Along with the ashes that fell on my head was the prospects’ photo. I was afraid to look but knew that there wasn’t much time.

  It was an old snapshot. A man, a woman and a little boy about six years old were standing in front of what appeared to be a tent. There was a banner on the tent that read “Patterson’s Amazing World of Wonders.” The man was extremely tall and thin—maybe seven feet, although it’s hard to tell in a photograph. He had longish gray hair, hollow eyes and a lantern jaw. The woman, in contrast, was much shorter and as wide as she was tall. They were both dressed in clothes that looked like Sunday outfits from another era. The man’s expression was steely. The woman’s, obscured by fat, was harder to read. They were standing close but not touching. The sad-looking little boy was off to the side, gazing into the distance. My hope was that they were visiting that circus or freak show or whatever it was and not part of it. But it was impossible to tell, and Mrs. Fletcher didn’t provide any additional details. Poor Lucille.

  “Here we go,” said Mrs. Fletcher. She made out the check and ripped it from the book with a flourish.

  Zoya pocketed her loot. Then she picked me up by the scruff of the neck and dropped me into the carrying case, not bothering to wrap me in the shawl.

  “Whoa, aren’t you being kinda rough with the little feller?”

  “These dogs like to be picked up that way, and I told you, is a girl. Goodbye, Iris. Call me when the prospects’ ready.” Zoya slammed the door, and we lurched down the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  “I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in existence.”

  Socrates

  Like witches brewing a cauldron of greed, Zoya, Charmaine and Mrs. Fletcher were casting their noxious spells over Lucille’s future. Their nasty dealings were obscured by the brilliant festivities of the Potemkin Christmas materializing around us.

  Charmaine had turned the media room into party central. White boards plastered with a confetti of Post-it notes lined the perimeter. To ensure against short-term memory lapses, there were notes for every activity, no matter how mundane—count champagne glasses, call dry cleaners, book jazz trio etc., etc. She had hooked up her laptop to the plasma TV and was spending the day working out arrangements for buffet tables and casino games. The wood floors and Turkish carpets were dotted with masking-tape X’s pinpointing the exact locations for bars and cocktail tables. When one of these markers was accidentally moved, Charmaine would reach for her tape measure with the quick-draw reflexes of a Marine on patrol in Fallujah and initiate a series of complex calculations to put it back in place.

  Lucille had been enlisted as a consultant on various software conundrums. She was also invaluable in the areas of spelling, grammar and arithmetic. She and Charmaine were sitting on opposite sides of a baronial mahogany desk. Each was facing a laptop. Between them were several sheets of graph paper covered with squiggles indicating the exact position for every piece of party equipment and furniture in the room.

  Charmaine, who I had learned had a Barbie-like belief that her clothing and accessories should match the task at hand, was wearing her hair in a twist with a pencil stuck through it and a pair of Gucci half-glasses (no prescription) on a gold chain around her neck—her interpretation of business-exec fashionista. Lucille was trying to do homework, but every time Charmaine ran into a software snag, she was interrupted. Immediate intervention was critical because, like all the humans, the computer was expected to instantly do Charmaine’s bidding. The slightest glitch ignited a fit of mouse bashing and stabbing at the power switch with everything from fingernails to letter openers, corkscrews and, even once, a cigar cutter. By the time Charmaine was through issuing hostile commands, the machine would be hopelessly frozen in cyberspace. Lucille was patient. If I didn’t know better, I would take this cozy collaboration as a sign that Charmaine was developing a soft spot for her and might even be weighing Lucille’s value as an accessory. Of course purse buddy was already taken, but arm candy was still available. Unfortunately, Larry couldn’t see the social, economic or aesthetic advantages of a child, and therefore it was highly unlikely that Charmaine would consider this anything other than an alliance of convenience.

  Speaking of Larry, he had been surprisingly absent. He had gone to Miami on business. I didn’t know what kind of business he was doing in Florida. It wasn’t somewhere he traveled when we were together. Perhaps the extermination company was testing a new chemical; they definitely have larger cockroaches in Miami, although something on two legs was more likely his target. There were unmistakable signs that another clever shop girl might be trying to maneuver her clothes into the walk-in closet.

  Charmaine was far too busy with Christmas to worry about what might happen in the New Year. She had been on the phone with Cristoff for an hour arguing about tofulets versus the bloody alternative. As a dog, I was with Larry on this one. Trying to pass off rubbery white Jell-O, even disguised in Chardonnay sauce, as a char-grilled slab of prime steak is like substituting Pee-Wee Herman as Dolly Parton.

  Charmaine flipped the phone closed and glared at us. “I can’t believe how stubborn he is. I’m supposed to be the customer, aren’t I? He actually had the nerve to try and convince me that Larry won’t know the difference between tofu and filet.”

  Tendrils of hair had come loose from her updo, and Charmaine’s face was rigid with indignation. Cristoff could take a few lessons from Mrs. Lin in the care and feeding of Number One Customers. Charmaine did not expect a response from Lucille any more than she would expect one from me. Lucille continued typing. The Disney Silver Mist Fairy Wings attached to her shoulders bobbed gently as she wrote. I was curled up on the desk. For a while, Charmaine was afraid that I wouldn’t bond with her if she allowed Lucille near me. When Lucille tried to pick me up, Charmaine would snatch me away. But Charmaine was distracted, and this was lucky because, like a puzzle where the trick is to discover the piano hidden in the tree or the elephant in the clouds, some very bizarre activity was being obscured in the ordinariness of this room.

  If Charmaine had seen what I saw, her hair would stand on end. My head was resting on the desk, and I was watching Lucille’s computer screen as she typed this:

  Hi Mommy—How are you today? I missed talking to you last night. Where were you? Where are you now? I know you told me not to be afraid. But I can’t help it. Zoya says that I’ll be leaving here in January. I’m going to a new family who is going to adopt me. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you and Sugar. I am so lonely, and there is no
one here to help me. I hope you answer soon.

  Love, Your Lulu

  Lucille stopped typing. She reached into a bag of Lucky Pups and fed me one of my favorite livery treats. Then she rested her elbows on the desk and put her chin in her hands so that her face was an inch from the screen. She stared hard at the monitor and chewed nervously on the end of a braid. The fairy wings quivered. As I watched, this message materialized letter-by-letter on the screen.

  Hey there, Mini Me—Mommy’s got your back. You will be fine. Nobody is going to take you away. I can’t tell you where I am, because I don’t know. But I have a friend who is helping me. I hear his voice. It sounds like he’s talking to me on a radio. He’s promised he will help you too. So hang in there, my medalist. Practice, practice, practice! Repeat this affirmation 10 times every morning—I WILL BE THE BEST ME I CAN BE. And never, never be afraid. You are a lioness. You are a warrior. You are a winner. Do not make Charmaine angry. She is very important to us. And take good care of your little dog. AND DO NOT TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS. I REPEAT—NO ONE.

  Love, Mommy

  As Veronica’s words appeared on the screen, I felt her presence like a steady vibration that kept growing stronger. The sound became a shadow, and finally I could see the blurred outline of her shapely forearms and her long, tapered fingers gliding over the keyboard. The fur around my neck stiffened, and my ears stood up. Veronica was less than a foot away, and I had no idea how to get her attention. She was fragile as a cloud of smoke. The slightest movement might cause her to disappear. I tried to be still, to keep from breathing. But her image was fleeting. By the time the last letter appeared, she had dissolved. The air around us felt displaced and heavy with her longing. Her determination to bridge the gap between the living and the dead was like a presence in the room. It happened so fast that there had been no time to think. I was left confused and frustrated.