Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  Still, in spite of having to listen to such criticism, Maria liked visiting Mrs. Stoica. She took the children with her on weekends when Victor worked. He no longer was a night watchman, but drove a yellow cab. It was a better paying, but demanding job. Still, he seemed to like it. It gave him an opportunity to talk to all kinds of people. He’d always been a people’s person, and Maria assumed, with envy, that his pleasant nature earned him extra tips.

  She complained to Mrs. Stoica about Victor incessantly. Under Josephine’s influence she had now taken to noticing how unappreciative he was, how he took everything for granted. She once told Mrs. Stoica that she hated him for always taking everything she gave, until she felt completely drained. She said she felt cheated because she put all of her efforts into pleasing him, yet he hardly ever did anything to please her. She was all consumed with taking care of him and the children. He too, was all consumed with taking care of exactly the same people. Nobody was there to mind her, and her needs.

  Mrs. Stoica shook her head, and smiled:

  “You know what my mother always said, may God rest her? The person eating seven breads is not stupid. The person giving it to them is.”

  Mrs. Stoica had an old saying to suit any situation. Maria remembered an afternoon when she was there with her children, and they got into an argument about Josephine. That was quite a bone of contention between them, as Mrs. Stoica never really understood her choice of socializing with, and working for, a person so utterly foreign.

  “You turned down a job in a bakery, to go take care of that Black woman’s children?”

  Mrs. Stoica said “Black” with a mixture of fascination and fear. Maria understood that this was a woman who, until her mid seventies had never set eyes on a Black person. She remembered how she herself, had been shocked to see people of various races and ethnicities at the international airport in Frankfurt, and then later on the streets of New York. In communist Romania, everybody looked pretty much the same, and they all dressed in a similar fashion, the fashion she was accustomed to, and liked. In America she was confused to see people running around in low-rise jeans, in saris, and turbans, do-rags, dreadlocks, mullets, yarmulkes. It made her feel even more foreign, like she was on a different planet, not just a different continent. So, yes, Maria could understand how a woman who had not experienced diversity until her mid seventies, would be fearful. But by now she herself knew enough about the world to identify her friend’s attitude as racist.

  “Black, white, what does it matter? She’s my friend. She has done more for me than anybody else since I came here.”

  “That’s because you won’t let anybody help you, Maria. You are too proud to take your own people’s help.”

  “I don’t need their help.”

  “Of course you do. We all need each other’s help. We are all in a new country, adjusting to new ways, making ends meet. It’s not good to be so proud. You need to learn to accept help.”

  Maria sighed.

  “I do accept help. I’ve already told you that Josephine has been helping me.”

  “So you’d rather accept that Black woman’s help than your own people’s?”

  Maria sighed.

  “My people’s? What makes them my people? How are they really my people, more than any other person? If you speak about how we all came here, poor and clueless, and how we need to help each other, don’t you realize, Mrs. Stoica, that we’re all in the same boat? Black, white, Asian, Hispanic, mixed, Romanian, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Haitian? Who cares? People come here from all over the world. Why should it matter who helps whom? At the end of the day, aren’t we all really the same in coming here and trying to make new lives for ourselves?”

  Mrs. Stoica shook her head.

  “People do come here from all over the world. So many people come here from so many places. They think in America, dogs run around with bagels on their tails. În America umblă câinii cu covrigi in coadă.”

  Maria smiles. Covrigi. She remembers Alex, sitting by the window in Mrs. Stoica’s kitchen, paging absentmindedly through a schoolbook.

  He looked up.

  “Covrigi,” he said. “Mami, mami, vreau covrigi!” I want bagels!

  How old was he back then, ten maybe? It seems like ages ago. And it seems odd to think of him sounding so excited about something so trivial. When was the last time he said anything remotely nice to her? He grew up and stopped calling her Mami. He got into saying ‘mom’ instead, always irritated, always condescending.

  She sighs. She’s fed herself memories all the way home. How silly, and how utterly useless. It doesn’t help to remember, and it doesn’t help to dwell on the past. You’re still here, still now, and it still is what it is.

  She turns the key in the lock, walks in, and heads for the phone. She tried hooking up an ugly black contraption to it, an answering machine. She’s hoping, still, to hear from her realtor. But the answering machine refuses to work with her old rotary phone. Besides, would the realtor even call on a Sunday? She heard that these people work day and night, that they are desperate to sell. But they probably only break their backs for people with real money.

  She sits down on the bed, and looks at the useless machine. She did, finally, after sleepless nights, cash Victor’s check. Her hand trembled when she signed her name across the back. She wonders if he had an endorsed copy returned to him.

  Of course, by the time she brought herself to cash the check, the apartment she liked was gone.

  “It’s been sold two weeks ago,” the realtor said. “Welcome to New York real estate, lady. You gotta move fast if you want something. A place like that isn’t gonna stay on the market long, not at that price. Now, let’s see… I could show you a bunch of other places, but don’t expect them to be like the one you wanted.”

  The very next day, she took Maria to see five different apartments. They were all more expensive than the one she’d liked. And all were hopeless, hideous.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” the realtor said. “They don’t sell mansions in your price range. I’ll call you if anything better comes up.”

  Maria knows she shouldn’t hold her breath. With a determined gesture, she unplugs the answering machine, folds its cord neatly, and puts it back into the ugly box it came in. She’ll return it tomorrow.

  16

  Uneasy

  I’ve been seeing Greg for about a month. I like his company at times. But I’m not sure I should continue. He obviously wants me, but for me, the attraction is just not there. I guess it’s time to end things, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings?

  I share my misgivings with Rachelle. She raises her eyebrows.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, L, but it’s about time you make up your mind. Either you take it to the next level, or you dump the poor guy. Otherwise you’re just leading him on, and that’s not fair.”

  I know. But how would I justify my decision? Telling him the truth would be beyond cruel: Sorry, Greg, you’ve been nothing but nice to me. But I am not attracted to you, and I can’t sleep with you. Let’s just be friends, ok?

  As I keep turning things over in my head, I realize that Francesca is fixing me with a less than friendly gaze. For a few days now she’s been rather cold. And she keeps criticizing my outfits.

  “You used to dress nicer, carina. What is going on?”

  I miss G’s wardrobe. But oddly, I don’t miss living in her lovely Upper East Side apartment. I’m more relaxed now. Life seems easier, less claustrophobic. I still get that panicky feeling every now and then, though, if something or another reminds me of Gretchen, and of my unpaid debt, or if Francesca frowns while looking at my shoes. In fact, Francesca is looking at my shoes just now, and I wish I could just sink into the ground.

  In need of an escape, I grab my bag, and announce that I’m taking lunch early. Francesca frowns, and mutters something. But the hour is appropriate. Just to make sure, I look at the digital clock on the counter. That’s when I realize it’s September 11th. No won
der, I’m having such a crappy day.

  While chewing a bagel I leaf through the newspaper somebody left on the table. It’s full of 911 stories. It was three years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

  That morning I was in the apartment in Queens with Mami. She didn’t have to be at work until later, and I only had an afternoon class. Alex left early in the morning, on the subway. He was still in high school back then.

  Mami was in the bathroom, fixing her makeup. I was drinking a glass of orange juice and eating a bowl of cereal. That was before I started liking coffee. For some reason, I felt compelled to turn on the TV. At first I thought the news coverage was a segment from a science fiction movie. Once I realized the images were real, I ran to get Mami.

  We watched together, hypnotized, as the second tower collapsed. Mami, on the verge of tears, and pressing a hand to her chest as if trying to keep her heart from jumping out, was the first to speak:

  “Go call your brother’s cell phone. Tell him come home right away. Then call your Tati. See if he’s ok.”

  I went into the bedroom. With trembling fingers I dialed the two numbers, one by one, over and over, until I finally got through.

  Mami stood in the doorway, holding my unfinished juice as if it were a holy relic, capable of protecting her from the horrors of the day. She stood there while I talked to Alex and Tati. When I finally put the receiver down, she was still standing there, with the juice.

  “This old,” she said. “I make fresh one.”

  Mami thinks juice loses its vitamins if you don’t drink it right away. I couldn’t believe she was thinking of that at a time like this.

  Tati materialized at our apartment a few hours later, and to Mami’s relief, Alex was with him. They had met in Manhattan and walked across the bridge together. The subway was not running.

  Mami made us all fresh juice, as if vitamins could keep us safe from terrorism.

  I sat on the couch with Tati and Alex, watching our crappy prehistoric TV, regretting we didn’t have cable, talking about what had happened, what was going to happen. Tati and Alex kept talking about how this would affect people’s perception of immigrants, especially Muslims.

  They watched the news and talked, while Mami busied herself in the kitchen. I don’t know whether she wanted to avoid Tati, the news, or the facts of life. But Mami cooked all day. She made a vegetable stew. Ghiveci. More vitamins, I guess.

  As Alex and Tati were deep into their political discussion, and Mami was busy chopping vegetables, I slipped into the bedroom and called the person everybody seemed to have forgotten about. Momo cried when she heard my voice.

  Three years later, eating my cold bagel, I have a revelation. Nobody is better equipped than Momo to give me advice on my conundrum with Greg. I’ll have to call her today, and if I’m lucky, she might even buy me dinner.

  Walking back the few blocks to Bella, I’m in a better mood. But then I freeze dead in my tracks. The well-dressed young woman opening the door to the store is unmistakably Gretchen. My heart pounding, I duck into a telephone booth, where I wait the excruciatingly torturous minutes until she leaves the store.

  By the time I venture back to work, I’m late. Francesca points at the clock on the wall, shaking her head and pursing her lips. She tells me in a displeased tone that my friend Gretchen just stopped by, and that Gretchen really needs me to call her.

  “And frankly, I am sick of taking messages for you, carina. I don’t know what kind of issue you have with this Gretchen person, but I really would appreciate it if you kept your personal life away from my store. This is a high end boutique, not a messaging service!”

  I feel my world collapsing. I cannot take my life anymore, this dead-end job, Francesca’s disapproval, the frightening thought that out there, in this city, Gretchen is looking for me, and that I owe her money. Feeling tears coming on, I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room, and call Momo on my cell phone.

  Momo is having a hellish day. She says she’ll probably have to stay at the office until nine. She has been working late all week, and is exhausted.

  “Please, Momo,”I beg. “I know you’re busy and tired, but I really really need to see you. I’m having such a horrible day.”

  Momo gives in. She’s good like that. She always tries to be there when I need her. She’s too tired to go out, though, so she asks me to stop by instead.

  She’s still wearing her business suit when I arrive. And she does look like she’s had a stressful day. But she welcomes me with a big smile and a warm hug. She cuts up bread and cheese, then sets out a dish of garlic stuffed olives, some giant capers the likes of which I’ve never seen before, and two glasses of wine. Good Momo! She must have sensed I’d be hungry, and stopped by the store on her way home.

  I devour the offerings like the hungry little animal I am. Momo puts on music, and retreats to the bathroom to remove her makeup. When she comes out, dressed in a white terrycloth robe, similar to the one she keeps at Tati’s, she reaches in the fridge for a paper bag containing cold cuts.

  “I’m so tired, Lili, I don’t even know where my head is!” she says, while extracting a large Versace platter from her cupboard, dusting it with the sleeve of her robe, and arranging slices of prosciutto on it. “I almost forgot what all I bought for us! But here’ hon’. Here you go. This is pretty good stuff. Even Victor likes it!”

  I grab a few slices of meat, while Momo lets herself sink onto her leather couch, and lights a cigarette.

  “So what is going on, love?” she asks. “You didn’t sound good on the phone earlier.”

  I try to finish chewing a mouthful of food.

  “All kinds of crap, you know,” I say, while fishing for another slice of cheese and a sun-dried tomato. They are delicious. Who needs to cook when they know a good deli, and can afford to shop there?

  “Work and stuff.”

  “I thought you liked working at that store.”

  “I did, but… Well, it seems like I’m not doing that well and Francesca keeps bugging me. It’s about stupid things, really, like I was late coming back from lunch today, and sometimes my outfits aren’t cool enough, and well, maybe I’ve been making too many calls, I mean, it’s nothing really serious, but if you put it all together…” I sigh. I don’t want to tell it like it is, but lately I’ve been afraid of losing my job. “I don’t know, it’s just that... I feel like I’m in trouble at the store.”

  “How much trouble can you be in?” Momo asks, taking a puff of her cigarette. “I mean, it’s a job selling bags. If you get fired, you get fired. It’s not that big a deal.”

  Her comment annoys me, and I think it shows on my face, because she quickly corrects herself:

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m just trying to help you gain some perspective. You’re not planning on selling bags for the rest of your life, are you?”

  “I guess not.”

  The topic of my future is something I consider best unaddressed.

  “So it’s just a temporary job. Something you do now, for a while, to pay your bills while figuring things out. If you get fired it’s not a tragedy. You’ll get another job.”

  “I guess,” I sulk. This conversation is not helping. I need some serious comforting, not someone to feed me cold cuts and tell me it’s ok if I lose my job.

  Momo smiles.

  “Oh, honey, come on! Don’t be so down on life! You probably won’t even lose your job! You’re just having a bad workweek. That stupid cow who owns the store is probably having her period or something. Here, have another glass of wine, you’ll feel better, I promise!”

  “I hope you’re right,” I say, as I let her refill my glass. “Maybe it’s just a bad workweek. But actually this is not what I need to talk to you about. I need to talk to you about this guy I’m seeing…”

  “Greg.” Momo smiles. After singing his praises at the Labor Day party, I don’t know how to tell her the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he still being nice to you?
”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But?”

  I stare at the slices of meat and cheese on my plate.

  “I don’t know how to say this. I don’t think I can sleep with him.”

  “Is he pressuring you?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Momo lights another cigarette. She smokes too much, and I hate it.

  “Do you want to sleep with him?”

  I shrug.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know. I like him, but…”

  “He doesn’t really turn you on?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Do you like the way he looks?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  After two more glasses of wine, and a shared slice of cheesecake (prăjitură cu brânză), we google Greg on Momo’s laptop.

  “Oh, he’s adorable,” she pronounces. “So here is what I think. You’re probably afraid because you haven’t had much experience with men. Maybe you are just shy, or maybe a little repressed. He’s a nice guy. He looks healthy. I think you should just go for it. But use protection, of course.”

  I roll into a ball on the couch. I’m a bit drunk.

  “L, honey,” Momo insists, “all you really need is more experience. Sometimes you can’t even know if you like a guy before sleeping with him. And it certainly takes a while for a woman to be able to learn what she truly likes in bed. Look, you are young, you should live your life. It’s always better to regret what you did, than what you didn’t do.”