Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  For the next few evenings, he arrived at my apartment after work, and less than a week after I met him he burst through my door. “Honey, I’m home!”

  I laughed before racing back to the kitchen.

  He chuckled and closed the door behind him. My hands returned to the dough I was kneading, and I could see him take in the surroundings. I loved my home. It wasn’t in an important building on the Upper East or Upper West Sides of town. It was a nondescript, medium-rise prewar space east of midtown, but a gem of light and high ceilings. It was on the top of the building, with gardens and a front door painted red. A secret jewel in a city of tiny spaces, filled with photos, flowers, and the first-edition children’s books I had been collecting since I was a child.

  After my mother died, the rent-controlled apartment was the only thing she left me, the one thing I needed the most. I might have driven her crazy with my desire for a permanence she didn’t begin to understand, but without ever telling me, she had put my name on the lease and left me a home.

  After years of butting heads, I vowed that somehow I would find a way to thank my mother. Somehow I would find a way to make her proud.

  “This place is amazing,” Sandy said.

  “It’s rent-controlled,” I called back.

  “Even more amazing. An incredible apartment you must pay next to nothing for, and which by law can’t be taken away from you. You hear about these places, but there are so few left anymore.”

  “Which is why I’ll never give it up.”

  I heard him hesitate before asking, “There is nothing that would make you give it up?”

  I should have understood then that I had tempted fate.

  “Absolutely nothing. This apartment gives me … freedom. It gives me a place where I belong, a home that I’ll always be able to afford.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” He resumed his perusal of the living room, laughed when he opened an antique music box and it played.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I’ve just about finished the dough.”

  “You’re making homemade bread?”

  “Rolls. Two batches. One for dinner, then another with cinnamon, pecans, loads of butter, and iced when they’re done.”

  He popped his head around the door frame, his smile as wicked as it was charming. “I take it you’re planning on me staying until breakfast?”

  My pulse leaped but I gave him a stern look. “No, I have no intention of seducing you. Just feeding you. Dinner. Only dinner. I rarely take the time to make fresh bread, so while I was at it I figured I’d make my famous cinnamon rolls too.”

  “Ah, well, a man can dream.” He extended the flowers.

  “Peonies.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “My favorites.”

  I took the flowers from him and found a vase.

  He came up behind me, close, but still not touching me. “Will they get me a breakfast roll?”

  A deep rush of longing ran along my senses, and after a second I turned to face him. When he lifted me up onto the tiny, cluttered countertop I didn’t stop him. When he leaned in, our lips nearly touching, and whispered, “Fall in love with me. I dare you,” I took his hand and pressed his palm to the side of my face, then kissed him.

  I forgot about breakfast rolls and dinner when he pulled me closer. He smelled of a subtle mix of wind and leather, intensely masculine and compelling after growing up in a world of women, men coming and going only in the capacity of temporary diversions. It wasn’t until Sandy slid his hands down my back, cupping my hips, that I broke away.

  “I am not wasting that dough,” I said, my breathing ragged.

  I kissed him one more time, then pushed him out of the kitchen, handing him a glass and a bottle of wine.

  Over dinner that night I told him about my only living relative.

  “At forty-nine, when I was nine, my mother surprised us all when she got pregnant again and actually married.” I smiled, though I knew there was a wry twist to it. “My little sister Jordan is everything I’m not. I write out lists and map out plans. She breaks the rules, gets into trouble, shuns good sense … and never failed to make our mother smile.”

  I felt the surprise I always did when I thought about my sister.

  “You must have hated her.”

  My head jerked back. “Hate her? God no. She can frustrate me, make me insane with worry. But I have loved her from the minute my mother brought her home, loved every tiny finger and perfect little toe.”

  He considered me for a second. “Where’s she now?”

  “Who knows? She travels the world doing good works. She’s convinced she can and will save the world.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  I had always kept Jordan away from the rest of my world, not because I was embarrassed of her, but because I knew she hated all things that involved deadlines and moneymaking, not to mention the sorts of people I tended to like. Having her point out all the reasons my friends and pursuits were suspect and inferior got old. Not to mention that when she said things like, “Freaking A, Em, that guy has fat palms and tiny fingers. Imagine what his dick looks like … if you can find it since you know fingers like that mean his dick is really a dickette.” Followed by a snort. “If a penis bangs around inside you like a clanger in a bell, I say why bother.”

  Eventually I would have to break it off with the guy because I couldn’t help grimacing whenever I looked at his hands. Needless to say, if I liked someone, I generally kept them far, far away from my sister.

  It had never mattered before. It shouldn’t have mattered then since I barely knew Sandy Portman. But already I knew I wanted more from him.

  “I accept,” I said after we finished eating.

  “Accept?”

  “Your dare.”

  His hazel eyes darkened and he reached for me. I nearly let him stay and finish what we had started on the kitchen counter. Instead, I shoved a paper bag of cinnamon rolls into his hand and pushed him out the door.

  *

  For hours after that early morning call from my parents-in-law, I existed in a state of numb disbelief.

  Sandy couldn’t be gone.

  I washed his clothes. I ironed his crisp button-down shirts that didn’t need ironing. Somehow it seemed that doing perfect housewife things would make him come home.

  At some point, less than twenty-four hours after the call, my motherin-law arrived and informed me that the funeral was to occur the following Friday at St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue. I couldn’t quite absorb the insult or implications of her making the arrangements. Instead, when she told me, I had to swallow back a laugh—or was it a choke? I didn’t believe any of it. None of this could be happening. I couldn’t be a widow. Widows wore support hose and had gray hair. Or if they were lucky, they had laugh lines around their eyes from long years living with a man who made them smile. At any second I would wake up and Sandy would be at the breakfast table eating what he always ate. One soft-boiled egg. Two slices of nine-grain bread with red currant jam. Grapefruit juice and Elijah’s Blend coffee. All from the Fairway market. Why didn’t his mother know that?

  Althea Portman looked at me oddly then left.

  On the Monday before the service, three days after the accident, I made Sandy’s breakfast without thinking. The surprise of seeing the meal sitting on the kitchen table brought me up short, and I backed into the wall. Without throwing it away or cleaning anything up, I dressed and hurried to my midtown office with its fax machines and break rooms where I couldn’t fall into the trap of expecting to find Sandy.

  I threw myself into a manuscript that was a mess, losing myself to the disconnected sentences and half-formed truths, anything that would consume my mind. At the end of the day, instead of going home, I went to the animal clinic where I volunteered. I was Emily Barlow. Strong, practical. I dealt with impossible situations. I could do this, I told myself. If nothing else, I was my mother’s daughter.

  When I walked into the clinic, I sensed so
mething before I understood what it was. I should have been surprised when I found the white wiry dog on the verge of death, covered in tubes and bandages, but I wasn’t. The staff said they had found him in the street out front, clearly a stray that had been hit by a car and left for dead. They had done what they could to revive him. Nothing had helped.

  “Einstein.”

  I named him without thinking, gently running my palm over the tufts of white wiry fur that stood up on his head and I knew that I had to save the animal, as if by doing so I could save my husband. Not that I actually put this into words, or even fully formed the concept in my head. I just knew I had to save the dog. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t lose Einstein.

  I paid for expensive surgeries with money I couldn’t afford to spend, praying for him to come out of the coma. When the vet had done all that he could, I sat with Einstein, waiting, stroking his fur. “Hang in there,” I whispered. “I need you to not die.”

  They say that coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous. But sometimes he opens his palm and hands us a gift we can’t deny is his doing. By the time I was out of money and the staff said we really had to let him go, Einstein woke.

  Part of me felt relief, as if somehow this meant that my plan of keeping busy and maintaining control was working. But the morning after Einstein woke, it was Friday, the day of Sandy’s funeral.

  I arrived at St. Thomas Church, not realizing I was wearing a navy blue dress instead of black until I hesitated on the church steps, my coat hem flapping open in the wind. Sitting in the front pew, I was only vaguely aware of the massive crowd in attendance; I studied lint on the blue jersey.

  I saw no faces. No voice stood out. Not even my sister was there because she hadn’t been able to get a flight back from South America in time. Whenever the disjointed numbness started to crack and let something darker seep through, I refocused on the lint or thought about Einstein. I thought about the manuscript I was working on. I thought about anything except the mahogany casket at the front of the church. I only wanted to get back to work, back to Einstein, then back to the safety of the apartment Sandy and I had shared at the Dakota.

  As soon as the service was over I turned to leave.

  “Emily.”

  With effort, I made out my motherin-law.

  She came toward me with icy-cold correctness, her auburn hair pulled back, her green eyes closed off, the kind of eyes that didn’t give anything back. She spoke with stiff enunciation of every syllable, jaw thrust forward, though I always had the feeling that her manner was an affectation born of necessity rather than a lifetime of New England nannies and Mayflower teas. It was Sandy’s father who had the blond hair and faded gray eyes of an older New York, along with the ease of that world which he wrapped around himself like a king’s robe, rich and important, but taken for granted.

  Althea nodded to people as they passed, then said, “How are you doing, dear?”

  I had the fleeting thought that this woman was kinder than I had always believed, and I started to blurt out that there was a photo of her and Sandy that I thought she might want.

  She never gave me the chance to offer the picture or even answer her question. “Taylor,” she called out to a man I somewhat recognized.

  “Mrs. Portman,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Althea and I both said thank you, before glancing at each other.

  “Yes, well,” she said, as if I had no right to the name. “The two of you might as well set up a time to meet.”

  The man shifted uncomfortably.

  “Meet?” I asked. “What for?”

  “The apartment, of course.”

  Foreboding prickled my skin, and I felt the hazy scrim seep back into my mind.

  “Althea,” the man said with a scowl, “I hardly think this is the time—”

  “Taylor, none of this is going to get any easier.” She turned to me. “My husband and I will give you time, but you need to start thinking about when you can move out.”

  I could only stare at her. “What?” I managed.

  “Emily,” she said carefully, “the apartment belonged to Sandy and is covered in his will. At his death, the residence at the Dakota goes into the Portman Family Trust.”

  “But … Sandy promised.” I tried to make my brain work. “He said he was deeding it to me. He changed his will.”

  “Emily, you’re confused. He didn’t change anything.”

  “No. That’s not possible.” After a year of Sandy’s prodding, a year after he promised me the Dakota, I had given in and given up my rent-controlled apartment, the decision tying me even more tightly to my husband. “Sandy said the Dakota was mine.”

  His mother looked me in the eye. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Heat ripped through my face. You can’t do this! But I caught myself. “I have to go,” I managed, banging into people as I hurried toward the door.

  “Emily!” Althea called out.

  But I didn’t stop. You will not fall apart, I told myself, needing to get away, though what I really needed was to see her son.

  On the street, I hailed a cab, then pressed my head against the hard seat back, not realizing I had given the animal clinic address until we pulled up outside.

  einstein

  chapter five

  I stared at my reflection in the stainless steel siding of some sort of medical cabinet. I could hardly believe my eyes. Where was my sandy blond hair, my sparkling hazel green eyes?

  I had always been known for my charm, not to mention my dazzling good looks. Based on the image staring back at me, I would no longer dazzle anyone. As a dog, all white wiry fur standing on end with the random smudge of brown. I was decidedly ugly.

  How could this be happening to me, Sandy Portman, a direct descendent of both the Vandermeer and Regal families of New York, Aspen, Biarritz, and the Hamptons?

  At the thought of the Hamptons I felt a spurt of pure happiness, all that sun and sand. But my joy turned to a shudder of despair at the realization that the man Sandy Portman loved the Hamptons. I couldn’t imagine that as a dog I’d ever get to see the Hamptons again.

  The drugged feeling slowly faded, unadulterated doom replaced with determination to get this ludicrous situation resolved. I pushed my anger down, like embers lying dormant, waiting to burst back into flames. I thought I was dealing rather maturely with the bizarre predicament, waiting patiently for the old man to return so I could let him know in no uncertain terms that this was unacceptable.

  Soon I started recognizing people I began to term “the staff.” A ragtag assortment of miscreants and underachievers I never would have hired given the choice, but staff nonetheless. Once I started feeling better they put me on a schedule.

  “Finally,” I snapped at the nurse.

  She gave me a wry look.

  Soon the dog diapers were removed, along with the IV, and they led me to a small area behind the clinic where a volunteer looked at me expectantly. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted.

  “Come on, Einstein, you’ve got to take care of business.”

  I ruffed in confusion.

  “You know,” he prompted. “Take a piss. Pee. Whatever.”

  My body stiffened. Relieve myself? Here? On the cement? With him watching? He couldn’t be serious.

  “Old man!” I howled.

  Thankfully the volunteer took pity on me and turned his back to give me some privacy. And really, I did need to “take care of business.”

  In addition to Nurse, there was a disreputable looking fellow who worked the nightshift named Vinny, and a multi-pierced, twenty-something female volunteer who came in twice a week. Her name was Blue, and while as a human I would have detested her, as a dog I liked her quite a lot. She was a veritable feast of smells, a living and breathing puzzle to keep my brain well occupied while she was there. The blue hair dye she used, the strange smell of her black lipstick. The vegetarian diet she ate.

  There were a scattering of other volunteer
s who weren’t regulars. Plus the vet, a nice enough guy who was amazed his handiwork had been able to save me.

  The faces blurred together at times, depending on how much sleep I got or what kind of drugs they pumped into me. But the person who always stood out was Emily. She arrived regularly, on more than just the Friday evenings when she used to volunteer—thank God. I might have wanted to divorce her when I was a man, but as a dog my options for interaction were uninspiring at best. The vet was too needy, the nurse too distracted. Blue was interesting but not nearly as attentive as Emily. Vinny just wanted the paycheck, and quite frankly, was a little scary. What I came to understand was that no one wanted to get attached to any of the animals in the clinic.

  As my health improved, I began to feel a fissure of concern. What would happen to me once I was able to manage on my own?

  I consoled myself with the thought that I would convince the old man I had learned my lesson and he would put me back in my body.

  Rolling over on my side, pawing distractedly at some simpleminded rubber toy Blue had left me, I was surprised when Vinny appeared one day and attempted to lure me out of the cage.

  “Time for a bath.”

  Bath? Someone, namely this fellow, was going to bathe me?

  While the idea of soaking in my deep porcelain tub back at the Dakota sounded like heaven, getting a dog bath didn’t sound like anything I would enjoy.

  “Come on, dog.”

  I deduced it to be well after midnight because Vinny had been there alone long enough to watch his favorite television show, mop haphazardly, watch his second favorite show, empty the trash cans, and take his late-night nip of cheap whiskey. Given that even as a dog I was no fool, I stayed where I was.

  “You’re taking a bath. The doc said it was time. When he shows up in the morning you’ve gotta be clean.” His less than spring-fresh coveralls carried a host of competing odors, none of them pleasant. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Just so ya know, I’m partial to the hard way.”

  His low chuckle made me think of a B-level actor straight out a bad episode of The Sopranos. What was he going to do? Break my leg, stuff me in a trunk, and drive me to a New Jersey landfill? What would Nurse and Vet say when I went missing? They might not care that much, but I knew Emily would.