Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “What I’d give for ten minutes with one of those guys,” she said.

  Ah, a woman who was drawn to powerful men. I shouldn’t have been disappointed. I was strong, I had power. But for some reason I had thought she was different.

  She laughed, those blue eyes of hers dancing. “Though my sympathies to any woman who falls for a guy like that. Just show me a glimpse of his brain, how it works, that’s what I want to see. Explain to me why one man is great and another isn’t. Is one man so hungry to be something more than ordinary that he does whatever it takes, and another won’t?”

  Her question made a shiver run down my spine. “You want to know if you’re born with talent or whether you develop it.”

  “Yes! If you hit a golf ball a hundred times and each time you shank, does that mean you’re not meant to play golf? Or is there a magic number for each person, like if you hit a hundred-and-one golf balls, or a hundred-and-ten golf balls, or even two-hundred-and-ten golf balls, it’s at that point that you’d start getting better? But you’ll never know because you gave up.”

  When I first saw her, saw the way she blew into the conference room, I was taken by her presence. When she talked about greats like da Vinci as easily as she discussed Tiger Woods and the problems that had come his way, I experienced the same feeling that with her at my side I could do anything. Sitting in a cracked vinyl booth in an ancient diner, Emily Barlow eased the aching need that flowed through me like blood, the hunger I had never been able to satisfy.

  When we finished dinner I was surprised at how much time had passed, how the restlessness had quieted. Emily proved to be a key to a lock on a door I had never been able to pass through. In her I found a foreign combination of desire and peace. And as soon as I put her in a cab and watched her fade away, I knew I would see her again.

  *

  The old man or angel or whatever he was shook his head at me.

  I might have cringed. The fact was, nearly four years after we ate at that diner, I had been pulling away from Emily. Not that she understood this, especially since for more than two years we had been insanely happy. But in the last few months everything had changed. The hunger had taken me by surprise when it returned, like a thief jumping me in a dark alleyway, stealing something essential.

  I had become short-tempered and impatient, at times shaking with frustration. Everything set me on edge. The palliative effect of Emily had worn off like a drug dissipating, leaving me in withdrawal for a fix I wanted but could no longer reach.

  The fact was I had gone to the animal clinic so I could take Emily to dinner and tell her I wanted a divorce. And the way I saw it, it was Emily’s fault.

  The old man gave me a look as if he could hear every word I was thinking. “Denial. Selfish denial,” he clarified. “No wonder I was sent here.”

  Which is when I, me, Sandy Portman, friend to a select few, charmer of many, began to understand that this wasn’t going to go well.

  “Please,” I managed, my clothes a mess, my hair wild. “Don’t do this to me.”

  He shook his head, then lifted his hands as if he was going to do something. Conjure up hell and damnation, make me disappear. I had no idea what exactly, but I knew it couldn’t be good.

  “Please, no!”

  The old man hesitated.

  “This is a mistake. You’ve got to believe me.”

  I was begging, I know, but pride has a way of flying out the window when you’re faced with your sudden demise.

  “Give me another chance!”

  He dropped his arms and narrowed his eyes. “So you do understand.”

  The words surprised me. I had been babbling. But this tack appeared to be working. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  I sort of panted the words and he looked at me hard, seeming to debate.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “But maybe that’s okay.”

  I could tell he was thinking about something, as if running through a mental pros and cons list, and I knew my fate lay in his hands.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you a second chance. But I’ve got to warn you, you’re not going to like the terms.”

  I most definitely didn’t like the sound of that, and old habits die hard—all those long established neural pathways sending jolts of ingrained behavior through me, like Pavlov ringing his damned bell.

  “Now listen here, old man—”

  “Fine, then. It’s over.”

  He lifted his hands.

  “Wait!”

  He didn’t stop.

  “All right,” I said, my voice both brave and resigned. “All right.”

  “You’re sure you want this?”

  I gave him a look. “If it’s your way or it’s over, I’ll take your way.”

  “Okay. Here you go.”

  Then the world went black.

  chapter three

  I had gotten myself into more than a few jams over the years, which perhaps explained why when I came to and heard the howling I wasn’t all that concerned. Irritated at the noise, yes, but not overly alarmed. Granted, confusion wracked my usually agile brain, making me undeniably slow on the uptake.

  What I did know was that I hadn’t a clue where I was, the sensation beneath my eyelids swollen and grainy. I couldn’t open my eyes, but it seemed more a refusal to see than an inability to do so. I felt drugged, my heart fluttering. I sensed that my body hadn’t the physical strength to filter drugs or alcohol or whatever was making me weak like it once had. First my leg, now the slow recovery rate of encroaching middle age. I groaned. I was thirty-eight, not fifty-eight. But the sound that hit my ears didn’t sound like any groan I had ever experienced.

  What was wrong with me?

  Thankfully the howling had abated, making it easier to think. I began to see light coming through the thin cracks between my eyelids. Then came the stench, an earthy smell that made my stomach roil.

  Had I been left in a barn? Or worse, based on the smell, had I been left in the bathroom of a country-western bar with a faint overlay of rubbing alcohol? Did they even have country-western bars in Manhattan anymore? Beyond that, how was it possible that I could distinguish all these smells?

  Finally my vision cleared enough to make out the thin bars of a metal cage. Drugs, alcohol, now a cage? What kind of debauchery had I engaged in last night?

  Then it hit me. The drive to the Upper West Side Animal Clinic. The snow. The taxi hitting the Mercedes. Me lying dead in the slush and snow. And the old man who said something about a second chance. Was it possible he had dropped me off in some sort of barn for alcoholics to do my penance?

  I shuddered at the thought. As much as I didn’t like to admit it, I carried hand wipes and tiny bottles of antibacterial solution with me. Safe to say, I definitely wouldn’t be big on barns of any variety.

  “Hello?” I called out, hoping the old man was nearby and could hop to and answer some questions. “Anyone there?”

  A strangled series of barks echoed against the walls beyond the cage.

  Panic ripped through me and I tried to sit up. But I couldn’t move. I had no strength.

  I groaned, which brought back the low howling sound. Was there a dog close by?

  “Hello!”

  The howl yelped into the space and I went very still, realizing that the sound was vibrating in my chest.

  Panic surged, blood pumping through me, bringing adrenaline with it, and I was able to raise my head. That’s when I saw the paws. White fur-covered paws attached to furry legs, traveling right up to the general vicinity of where I looked out.

  With a jerk, I glanced at the body. The quick movement made me dizzy, and I nearly passed out at the sight of more white, wiry fur and another set of limbs. And a tail. Dear God in heaven, had the old man turned me into a dog? Was this even possible?

  Frantically I used every ounce of mental energy I had to push forward, my brain telling my hand to move. But the only thing that stirred was one of those front paws.
r />   I fell back against the floor. I sensed the heavy breathing, but heard a pant.

  Pulling a deep breath, I concentrated, then yanked the body forward again. All I saw was the dog legs and cage. I tried to touch something. But the only way I could touch anything was with my face. And my face touched the leg, and the only leg getting touched was the fur-covered one.

  Sweet mother in heaven, I was a dog. More specifically, I realized that somehow I was in the body of the white wiry stray who had stepped in front of the cab.

  What started as a whimpering howl became manic baying. Shock shuddered through me. The noise echoed against the thin metal grating of the cage, desolate, devastated. But the despair quickly turned to anger, and on the heels of anger, fury consumed me.

  I howled and growled, saliva pooling in my mouth, the thin floppy tongue lolling about without direction.

  “How could you do this to me?” I cried, the sound a furious howl.

  I had never felt such wretchedness. If there had been a spike or sharp object I would have thrown myself on it, impaling this awful body, putting us all out of our misery.

  Eventually my howling tapered off, what little adrenaline I had managed to drum up deserting me. I fell back, a noise coming out of me like groaning hot air let out of a heavy balloon. The head—my head now—landed on wadded-up terry cloth, some cheap discarded beach towel from the looks of the thick bold stripes.

  I don’t know how long I lay there moaning in the semidarkness and barn stench without dying before I heard a door open.

  “Einstein?”

  It was a woman’s voice, one I recognized.

  “Einstein, is that you, boy?”

  I was stunned and overjoyed when Emily appeared before the cage, her blue eyes filled with concern.

  “Emily!” I cried. But the consonants and syllables wouldn’t form into anything coherent. “Oh my God, Emily! It’s me, Sandy!”

  “There, there, boy. Don’t try to get up.”

  She crouched down and stuck her fingers through the very lowest place in the cage. With serious effort, I managed to control the unruly tongue and stretch forward far enough to lick her. “Emily, Emily, Emily,” I murmured, the sound echoing against the walls of what I now confirmed was the Upper West Side Clinic where Emily volunteered. “It’s me,” I whimpered.

  “It’s okay, Einstein. You’re going to be all right.”

  I could tell from her voice that she was amazed that this dog was alive. More than that, she knew this dog. She loved this dog. And she was worried sick about this Einstein.

  “Damn it, Emily, it’s me!”

  If her not recognizing me wasn’t bad enough, I realized that the despicable old man had clearly thought to play a joke on me. Well, the old bastard would learn. You didn’t play jokes on Alexander “Sandy” Vandermeer Regal Portman.

  “Old man!” I barked. Literally, bringing back the despair.

  “Oh, Einstein,” Emily said, sinking to the floor beside the cage. “You’re going to be okay, E.”

  The cadence of her voice and the touch of her fingers settled me. “Emily,” I murmured, the sound a guttural moan.

  When I finally calmed, she opened the cage door.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I should be at work getting ready for the editorial meeting, but Blue called and said you were awake and something must be wrong because you wouldn’t stop howling. What is it, boy? Is the pain bad?”

  “Yes!” said as a sharp bark. Though the body pain was the least of my concerns.

  The greatest sense of frustration I had ever known hit me. My verbal skills had always been excellent, my quick wit and funny turns of phrase the foundation of my charm. The ratty old heart sank as my mind clarified the thought. Sandy was charming; Sandy had excellent verbal skills. Not the dog called Einstein.

  Another howl echoed against the cinder block walls and cement floor.

  “Oh, Einstein. I hate seeing you like this,” Emily said, touching my paw.

  Then of all things, she smiled at me. Granted, it was a strange yearning smile, but a smile nonetheless. She leaned close and cupped my head with her hands. “Can you believe it, E? You made it,” she whispered. “You didn’t die.”

  Her words shuddered down my spine with a clarity that I felt but didn’t understand, before the sensation evaporated when something occurred to me. Sure, this dog had survived. But if I, me, Sandy Portman, hadn’t survived, had died, my wife should be at home in anguish, distraught, unable to function. Hadn’t she been notified yet? Good God, had my body somehow ended up in the morgue as an unidentified John Doe?

  My mind staggered, emotion and canine pharmaceuticals finally too much for this dog’s body. I welcomed the relief that crept around the edges of consciousness like an inky black darkness, and I went under.

  *

  I woke again.

  I can’t say how long I was out, but for the next period of time my new little dog’s body and I existed in a vacuum broken up by visits from Emily, an intensity of smells that made me want to stuff cotton up my nose, and noise. Every sound from blocks away rang in my ears until I wanted to shudder against the racket. I could hear sirens and garbage trucks shifting gears, children laughing and screaming in the street. All of it was a din in this head, a quagmire of sound and smell, pain and anguish. I would have sunk back onto the unrelenting cage floor if the door hadn’t opened.

  “Einstein? How are you doing, boy?”

  Emily again.

  “I’m horrible,” I snapped at her, angry, frustrated.

  “Now, E, I know I promised to come back sooner. But a manuscript that was due ages ago came in and the production department needed it edited immediately. I read all afternoon and night. Hey, you didn’t eat your food. Einstein, you’ve got to eat to get your strength back.”

  “Hello! Why aren’t you upset over me, the man me, your husband?”

  I know I snapped again, but really, I was a dog. A miserable dog.

  “Einstein,” she admonished me. “You’re too much.”

  I was too much. This was too much. Then all of the sudden what equilibrium I had summoned deserted me and I started to cry. Me, crying.

  Of course it came out as that horrid howling, painful and filled with desolation. Emily sat back on her heels, drawing in a shuddering breath.

  One of the things I had always admired about her was the way she remained even-keeled, never crying. She wasn’t one to fall apart. Though I didn’t like it one bit now that her strength was employed in regards to me.

  But then she leaned forward, coming closer. I saw beyond the encouraging smile and realized that there was a haunted look in her eyes. I could actually feel her pain, sensed tears that threatened, but she held them back, her fingers curling into the grated edge around the door.

  Frustration snaked through me. When Emily finally threatened to fall apart in any way, why in the world was it because of a dog?

  “Oh, Einstein,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she pressed her forehead against the cage. “I can’t believe Sandy’s gone.”

  emily

  For all her life, my mother was part adult, part child; equally as determined as impetuous. She fought against men who didn’t want to share rights that should have been afforded to all even as she collected those very same men, making them love her until she got bored and tossed them aside. My mother had no respect for any woman who needed a man.

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter four

  I dream of snow. White, blinding. When I see Sandy, he stands in the street, snow making the world around him soft, seemingly safe. He extends his hand to me, that smile of his pulling up at one corner. Then the car, swerving back and forth. Just before impact I gasp awake and scream, No.

  *

  My mother always said I never did anything halfway—not in school, not in life, and clearly not in love. On the night of Sandy’s accident, when he still hadn’t come home at midnight, I called every
one I could think of. No one had heard from him, and I’d had to leave a message on my parents-in-law’s answering machine. I paced the apartment, anxiety trumping all the plausible explanations I managed to come up with. When the phone rang at one in the morning I went still, standing frozen for half a second before I grabbed up the receiver. “Sandy?” I blurted.

  A startled silence followed. “Emily, this is Walter Portman.”

  My father-in-law’s voice was brusque, intimidating. But that night his usual tone was mixed with something else. It wasn’t alarm, as if I would need to come quickly. It was more resignation, as if whatever had happened was done, finished.

  My breath rushed out in a silent gasp. My brain tripped and staggered, then righted itself, though only to the position of drunken soldier not in her right mind. At some level I knew what the call meant. But I didn’t give my father-in-law a chance to tell me. I made small talk, asked how things were at the firm. “Can you believe this bizarre weather?” I bleated.

  I heard him sigh, the sound of his leather desk chair groaning as he leaned back and said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  Grief alters the mind, has the ability to take you places that seem normal but aren’t. “This isn’t a good time, Mr. Portman. Sandy should be home any minute.”

  He was silent then. After a long moment he started again, this time softer. “Emily.”

  But he didn’t get a chance to finish before I heard his wife walk in.

  “Did you tell her?”

  He covered the mouthpiece, his voice muffled as he said something, then Althea came on the line.

  “Emily, there’s been an accident.”

  *

  I had barely known Sandy for more than a few days when I invited him to dinner at my apartment. I made a meal of lamb chops with a mango curry, and we talked long into the night. His hands were strong and beautiful, always close to mine, but never touching.