Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  Lili also has plans. She’ll be spending Thanksgiving with her boyfriend’s family. Maria was not even aware that her daughter had a boyfriend. She feels hurt that L doesn’t share much about her life. And she hopes that this mysterious boyfriend is just a silly infatuation, nothing serious.

  Of course, there’s also Victor to take into account, but with the children unable to attend, the idea of him coming to Queens for Thanksgiving is absurd. Maria cannot imagine being more relieved. She has not talked to him since the day he gave her the check for her down payment. She really doesn’t want to talk to him. Their last meeting was too unpleasant. Plus, she’s embarrassed to have cashed the check she so firmly rejected. He’ll probably gloat, discreetly, in his own way, and then he’s bound to ask too, if she has found a place yet.

  Unwilling to call him, she asks L to communicate to him that, since both children have other plans this year, there will be no Thanksgiving dinner at her house.

  “What will you do, Mami?” L asks.

  “Don’t worry about me, my sweetie. I’ll be fine.”

  “Will you go anywhere? Maybe you can go to a dinner somewhere else?”

  Everybody seems to think that Maria should go somewhere. Her colleagues at work invite her over, and even insist, when she declines politely. Mada, her only friend, offers a selection of parties they could go to. Or should they take a small trip, a cheap little cruise or something? Maria laughs. To her knowledge, there are no cheap cruises, in fact there are no trips she can afford to go on, and she knows Mada has just as little money. For a second, she entertains the idea of blowing some of Victor’s cash on an exotic trip. After all, it’s been years since she’s been anywhere remotely nice. She envisions her and Mada drinking mango margaritas on the beach and enjoying hot stone massages in a fancy spa. But no, she needs the money for her down payment, in case she ever finds a place.

  Besides, she has no desire to go anywhere, margaritas and hot stone massages be damned. She doesn’t want to be standing in long lines at the airport, with luggage, and irritated people. Just the thought of the crowds makes her cringe. Traveling must be hell these days, with the terrorist threats and people’s hysteria. She’d rather just stay home. And she doesn’t want to go to somebody else’s party either, to eat their overcooked turkey and canned cranberry sauce, and force herself to be sociable. She’d rather spend a quiet evening with a book. She even signed up to work the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

  But Mada won’t take no for an answer. She gives up on the unfortunate idea of the cruise, but she can’t accept that Maria will spend Thanksgiving alone, when there are so many nice dinners one could go to.

  “No, Mari, an evening alone with your books does not sound like fun. It sounds depressing. And besides, you are being selfish! Maybe you want to be alone, though for the life of me I don’t understand why. But what about me, Mari? You know I don’t like to go to parties alone. Would it really be that hard for you to show a little solidarity and come with me?”

  Against her better judgment, Maria concedes. At least Mada associates with a different group of Romanians than Mr. Grecu and his lot. And she seems convinced that among her circle of acquaintances, she can find a Thanksgiving party Maria will like.

  “Tolerate,” Maria corrects. “I’m only going for you, so you don’t have to go alone, remember?”

  But Mada insists that, in spite of her social phobia, her friend will enjoy the party she ultimately selects.

  “Mari, these people are nice. She’s a professor at NYU, and he’s a software engineer. They are young and cool. And their friends are nice. I promise! There will be people there you’ve never ever met. And it’s not even a dinner, it’s a real party. There will be drinks, maybe even dancing, but really, people will just mingle and talk to each other.”

  Maria sighs. Mingling and talking? Not her forte. But still, on Thanksgiving night she does her hair and makeup, puts on a black wrap dress that accents her waist and cleavage, dabs on some perfume, steps into yet another pair of torturous shoes, picks up a bottle of red, and takes a cab to Manhattan to accompany Mada to the house of complete strangers.

  The party is not bad. Mada is in a good mood, and really happy to see Maria. The hors d’oeuvres are excellent, and there is plenty of good wine. The people seem nice, and quite a different crowd than the one Maria so intensely disliked. Still, being her usual shy self, she keeps quiet and sticks to Mada’s side. At some point, however, her friend drifts off, deep in conversation with a man who seems to like her. Left to her own devices, Maria tries to work up the courage to mingle. New people keep arriving. The room is getting fuller and fuller. For Maria’s taste, it’s too loud, and too smoky. She decides to escape to the balcony for just a few minutes.

  She’s trying to make her way through the crowd, when someone taps her shoulder. It’s a soft, feminine touch, and as she turns around, she’s faced with a beautiful dark-haired woman. She searches her face, trying to recognize her, but her mind draws a blank.

  “Are you Maria Pop?” the woman asks. Her face is one big smile. Maria wonders where they could have met.

  “Yes.”

  The woman extends her hand, and Maria shakes it.

  “Monica Simion,” the woman introduces herself. Maria feels a cold chill going down her spine. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for such a long time. I’ve heard so much about you. From your children, from Victor.”

  Maria wonders if she should just turn around and leave.

  “I’m Victor’s girlfriend,” the woman finally offers.

  Maria cannot breathe. She wipes her palm on the fabric of her dress, as if trying to wipe off the other woman’s touch. She takes a step back, inhales sharply, then says:

  “And you had the bad taste to think that I would want to meet you? Get away from me!”

  Just then, she notices Victor, standing on the other side of the room, looking straight at her. The bastard! It has never occurred to her that he and his girlfriend could be here tonight, otherwise she would not have accepted to come. She hoped never to meet this Monica Simion.

  She turns around and heads for the bedroom, where the guests’ coats are piled up on the bed. She cannot wait to leave this party. As she blinks away tears, she’s hoping that awful woman will not follow her to see her cry.

  But it’s even worse. The person following her into the bedroom is Victor. She looks away, and keeps digging through the coats, not even acknowledging his presence.

  “Maria, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would be here tonight.”

  She drops the coats and looks at him. She knows her eyes are glazed with tears, but she can’t help it.

  “Please don’t look at me that way,” he says. “I really am sorry. I had no way of knowing you’d be here.”

  She tries to blink away her tears, but it’s too late.

  “Maria, please don’t cry. I really am sorry.”

  She can think of nothing but leaving this awful place.

  “I want to go home, Victor. Can you please take me home?”

  She knows how absurd her request is, how unlikely for him to leave his girlfriend at this party in order to drive her home. But there seems to be genuine concern, genuine warmth, in his voice when he asks:

  “You want me to take you home?”

  Her eyes meet his. There is a fleeting moment of kindness between them. A cease-fire of sorts.

  “Please,” she says. “Take me out of here.”

  He reaches for her coat, and holds it so she can slip it on. He places his hand on the small of her back and leads her out of the room.

  They walk in silence to his car. She can’t think of one single thing to say. Why did she ask Victor of all people to take her home? She hates being alone with him.

  Victor holds open the car door. She sits down, fastens the seat belt with a shaking hand. The interior of his car smells like expensive leather. It reminds her of the gloves she sells. She tries to take comfort in it, but she can’t. His car feels forei
gn to her, like enemy territory, like the frozen plains of Russia. From the dashboard, machine eyes cast their lifeless glances at her. What is she doing in his car? She should have left alone. She should have taken a cab.

  The silence is oppressive. Victor lights a cigarette. He’s blowing the smoke out the window. He seems miles away.

  Her mind is spinning uselessly. She keeps trying to think of something to say, something neutral, something to ease the tension. But she has no clue, and she has no courage. It was too bold of her to ask him to take her home, too bold and too presumptuous to think he wanted to rescue her. And why on earth did she think she’d be comfortable being alone with him? Why did she think she’d be able to tolerate his frosty politeness, his unspoken judgment, all the way home?

  He doesn’t get on the Queensboro Bridge. She wonders where he’s driving. She can’t find her voice to ask him, can’t think of how to phrase the question. They drive in silence, her staring at the cars ahead, him smoking. He steers the car uptown. He’s taking her to his apartment. Her muscles tense up. She knows she should protest, but the words won’t come out.

  He parks the car, and comes around to open her door. Now is the time for her to walk away, and get a cab. Instead she follows him into the building.

  They stand side by side in the small elevator. With a mix of dread and excitement it slowly sinks in. He still wants her, yet he must hate her at the same time. Her nervousness is bordering on fear. Yet she’s not sure exactly what she’s afraid of. Adrenaline courses through her veins, as if anticipating danger. But she doesn’t try to stop the elevator. She doesn’t try to leave. Whatever lies ahead, she’s drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. It’s surreal, being here, in his building, in this elevator, going upstairs. With Victor.

  He opens the door. She steps inside. He helps her out of her coat. She’s cold. She’s never been here before, to the place where he lives. She’s thought of asking L to describe it so many times, but was embarrassed to show curiosity. And now here she is, surrounded by the objects that furnish Victor’s life without her. Will she be strong enough to weather the frozen fields of Russia?

  He turns on a dim light, and pours two tumblers of scotch. Straight up.

  “Drink this. You seem to need it.”

  Her hand is shaking visibly. She takes a small sip, and the golden liquid spreads a wave of heat throughout her body.

  He comes closer. She can feel the warmth of his breath, can smell the hint of tobacco and whisky on it, the scent of his skin, so manly she can barely stand it.

  “Drink faster,” he says, and she downs her whisky like a shot. He takes her empty glass and places it on a table. The thought briefly crosses her mind, that he should use a coaster, that there will be a wet ring on his expensive table, and she clings to that thought, as if that ring of water were the lifebuoy that can rescue her from Victor, from her own feelings, and her fear. She should leave. Now. Trembling visibly, she inches away from him, towards the wall, but he comes closer. For one long moment, she’s weak with anticipation. Then he finally touches her, and she shivers at the boldness of his hand on her thigh, on her breast, the forgotten feel of a man’s fingers on her flesh. He lifts her off the ground, and he is rough, yet at the same time careful, his hand cradling her head, as he presses her against the wall. It always turned her on, the way he could pick her up, as if she were weightless. Her heart is pounding, vibrating like an Asian gong. She feels it in every fiber of her body. Her evil, treacherous heart, threatening to explode, to melt into hot lava, to wash over her in waves of heat and kill her.

  19

  The Walk of Shame

  Maria is sitting on the New York City subway, with her coat wrapped around her, taking little sips from a cup of Starbucks coffee. Her head hurts from lack of sleep, her bloodshot eyes are burning, and the soreness between her legs intensifies with every shake of the subway car. She blushes.

  She feels as if the people on the subway know what she’s been up to, as if they can see her wrinkled party dress underneath her coat, as if they can tell that she’s carrying her bra in her purse, that she’s not been able to find her underwear, that she hasn’t had a shower, or even washed her face. Can they smell it on her, the scent of Victor, combined with the sinful smell of sex? She herself cannot understand why she feels so embarrassed and guilty at the thought of sleeping with her own husband. Is it because they’re separated? Is it because it’s been over ten years since she’s been with a man? Or is it because this was a different kind of sex than anything she’s ever experienced before? It was mostly good before, when they were still together. But it was never this wild, this intense.

  She lowers her eyes, afraid people might be able to read into them, to see the images coursing through her head, the images she’s trying to erase, but can’t.

  Maybe the reason she feels so embarrassed in the light of day, is that she’s allowed herself to lose control, as if her body didn’t belong to her, but to a completely uninhibited woman, a woman who was wild, free, crazy, and loud. She never behaved like this before.

  She felt so uncomfortable waking up in Victor’s bed, next to his naked body, the sight of which immediately made her blush, though she had seen it many times before. But that was in a previous life, and his body too back then was different, though it hasn’t changed over the years as much as hers. She shakes away the image of her own naked body, the breasts that are larger, but not as firm, the little ring of fat around her waist, the cellulite on her hips, the scar from the C-section when she had Alex, which now forms a little valley through the small cushion of her belly. The thought that he saw all this makes her want to die. But she remembers not caring about any of it in the heat of passion, and she also remembers, much to her horror, him taking the time to look at her.

  She wishes she had something to read, anything to distract her, anything to make her stop thinking about the night before. But of course, all she has is the small purse she took to the party, now stuffed beyond capacity with her bra. She wishes she had a toothbrush. She would of course not have brushed her teeth at Victor’s. She was extremely careful not to wake him as she tiptoed around collecting her things from wherever they were scattered. She would not have taken the chance of waking him by running the water. She even waited until she was at Starbucks to use the restroom. In her hurry, she even gave up on finding her underwear. She heard the bedsprings creak as Victor was turning, and felt such a strong surge of panic at the thought of having to face him, that she decided to just grab her coat and purse, and leave, holding her shoes, stockings, and bra in her hand. She stepped into her shoes and stockings in the elevator. Even call girls must be classier than that.

  But call girls do not really have to feel uncomfortable afterwards. For them the deal is clear. A simple business arrangement. Whereas she knows, she’s swimming in muddy waters. What, if anything, will happen next? What will Victor do? Part of her is furious with herself for being a coward. She should have had the courage to stay and find out.

  What would he be like in the morning? Would he be tender, would he at least be friendly, or would he, again, be cold and distant? Would he want to talk about it? Or would he act like nothing happened? Would he want her to stay for breakfast? Would he want to go to bed with her again? Would he want her to just leave? Would he drive her home? Would he promise to call? Would he make her coffee? Would he bring her breakfast in bed? Or would he expect her to make breakfast for him, to serve him, the way she used to while they were still together?

  She’d love to know, and part of her wishes she’d stayed. But she was afraid that he’d wake up and resent her, that he’d be cold, maybe even unkind. She couldn’t bare that, can’t bare to even think of it, in fact.

  She decides to forgive herself the cowardly escape. After all, she should give herself license to be uncomfortable. Yes, she’s a bit of a prude. But she’s a woman who has not been touched by a man in more than ten years. She’s never ever been with anyone other than her husband. And the
man she went home with last night seemed like someone else, a cross between the Victor she knew, the one she’d loved and hated, and a stranger. It felt oddly familiar, and yet completely foreign. It was strange.

  There wasn’t much of the tenderness that dominated their lovemaking, even in their final years of living together, when she started feeling used, like a passive observer, somebody, maybe even something Victor had sex with. Last night she certainly was an active participant, but the tenderness that used to be there between them was gone. She could pick up little traces of it here and there, small vestiges of the past, but what happened between them seemed completely different. It was pure lust, wild, with a rough quality to it. And she liked it. A lot.

  Still, now, in the light of day, it shakes her to think that maybe that was all he wanted. Just sex. Just her body. She’s flattered that her aging body can still awake such desire, but, in the light of day, it all seems empty to her. Is that all she is to him? Maybe it was not even the actual attractiveness of her body that ignited such passion. Maybe it wasn’t even lust on his side. Maybe it was just an ambition. Maybe he wanted to prove to himself, and to her, that he could wear down her resistance, that the woman who had pushed him away, still wanted him. She suddenly hates herself for having allowed herself to go home with him, for having let him touch her, for enjoying it, for letting him see just how much she enjoyed it.

  She gets off the subway at the stop closest to her house. She’s in no mood for walking, and her body feels sore. After all, she got plenty of exercise last night. As she climbs up the stairs from the subway, her cellphone’s ringing startles her. She opens her purse and the bra falls out. She picks it up, embarrassed, just as somebody’s about to step on it. Then she retrieves her ringing cell phone, and without even looking at the screen, she turns it off.

  When she gets through her front door, she feels better. Her apartment is warm, familiar, comforting. She hates this place, it’s true, but now she embraces its time-honored safety. How good it is to be home, in her own apartment, after weathering the cold plains of Russia! How soothing to sink back into the mundane setting of her daily life. She kicks off her torturous shoes, drops her coat and bag on the floor, and walks into her bedroom where she unplugs the phone with such determination she almost rips it out of the wall. She’s tired, and weary, a war survivor, in fact. Her body’s sore, and her eyes are burning. The whole wide world can just fuck off and leave her alone.