Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  They drink more champagne and watch the snowflakes dance. Soon she’ll have to leave the magic of champagne flutes, bubbles, and fragrance. She’ll have to step out into the winter afternoon, and go back to work. She’d almost risk being late, to prolong sitting here, with Victor, watching the snow.

  “You know, I meant it about that perfume. You should let me buy it for you. When was the last time I bought you a present?”

  “Other than my apartment?” she asks, blushing.

  “I did not buy you your apartment, Maria. You bought it yourself. I might have helped you get it sooner. But we both know you would have saved the money and gotten it anyway. I just wanted you to have it now rather than later. Life’s short, and you’ve already missed out on a lot of good years.”

  She ponders the thought, taking a sip of champagne.

  “And you should be proud of yourself,” he says. “As far as I’m concerned, you did it on your own, and it’s no small feat, buying your own place in Manhattan. Remember when we came here and you didn’t speak English, you couldn’t get a job, and you were terrified to even go to the store by yourself? You’ve come a long way. And you did it in spite of being proud and stubborn, and sending everybody straight to hell, whom you didn’t like. Including me.”

  She laughs.

  “But you helped.”

  “Not really, and not as much as I should have. And that’s because you wouldn’t let me. But I was hoping that now, that you hate me less… You do hate me a little less these days, don’t you?”

  She laughs again.

  “I never really hated you. I mean really hate, you know. And yes, I do hate you a little less.”

  “Well, I just thought that maybe you’d reconsider the money situation.”

  “I don’t want your money, Victor. I feel bad enough taking it for the down payment.”

  “It’s your money too. We’re married, remember? Legally, you’re entitled to half of what I have.”

  She takes another sip of champagne. She doesn’t feel entitled to anything. She was a bad wife. And why should wives be entitled to money anyway?

  “Marriage is such weird institution,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think I’m entitled to anything, Victor. You worked for your money. Not me. You should use it however you want.”

  “And suppose I actually want to spend some of it on you?”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t meant for it to come out as defensive as it did.

  “I’m not expecting anything in return, Maria. You don’t have to be my friend. And you certainly don’t have to sleep with me ever again if you don’t want to. I just think you deserve to enjoy life for a change. I’d love for you to let me help you.”

  She blushes at the mention of sex, and is embarrassed further by his generosity. His kindness is so undeserved. And it allows for the painful hope that he still cares for her a little bit.

  “And yes,” he says, “you were right when you said I wanted to use my money to…” He fiddles with his champagne flute. His discomfort is palpable. It freezes her in place. “…to make amends. I never took care of you the way I should have. In fact, I always thought it was unfair that we split up just when things started going better for me.”

  She swallows. She doesn’t want to point out that it was her who asked him to leave.

  “You didn’t have to take care of me, Victor. I was a grown woman, not a child! In fact, I think it’s quite an antiquated notion that a husband has to provide for his wife! I don’t feel like you ever had the responsibility to take care of me!”

  He laughs.

  “I’m not trying to bring back the 1950s, Maria!” He takes a sip of his drink, and appears to be pondering his words. “I respect that you’re independent. But would it be acceptable for me to say, I would have liked to be able to take care of you?”

  “I would have rather liked being able to take care of myself,” she says. “I hated that you had to support me for all those years, when I didn’t have a job and was living off you.”

  He looks at her long and hard.

  “Is that how you really felt? Did I really make you feel that way?”

  She sighs and hides behind her eyelashes.

  “I know I wasn’t pulling my own weight,” she says.

  “You took care of our children, you cooked, you cleaned, you shopped, and you denied yourself everything until you couldn’t stand it anymore. I’d say that’s more than pulling your own weight.”

  She has to laugh. Whatever happened to him? She never thought she’d hear him talk this way.

  “You sound like Josephine,” she says. “Our neighbor, the one I babysat for.”

  “I remember Josephine. You know, I always could tell she didn’t like me, and now finally I know why. She knew I treated my wife like a servant, and made her feel bad about it, to add insult to injury.”

  It isn’t funny, but she laughs all the same. She could never tell him what Josephine really thought about their relationship.

  “So you think you should finally pay me for being your maid? Is this what this money thing is all about?”

  He frowns.

  “That’s harsh. But I guess I deserve it.”

  His eyes look darker, sadder. But he laughs.

  “No, ma’am. Your services are priceless.”

  She can’t help but giggle at that. Is he trying to flirt in the middle of such an unpleasant conversation?

  “Is that so?” she asks.

  “I’d never try to put a price tag on you raising our children,” he says, “or on many other things you did. It’s just symbolic, Maria. I know it’s too little, too late, but I’d wish you’d agree to share our money. I know it wouldn’t make things right. But it would make me feel better if you’d accept it.”

  She shakes her head, smiling.

  “You don’t have to do this, Victor.”

  “Think about it at least. You don’t have to decide right now. Life is short. You should enjoy it while you can.”

  She drinks the last sip of champagne. It’s sad, but she does have to go.

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll think about it. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with you giving me money, or buying me stuff. But I’ll consider it. And I appreciate the offer.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Stubborn woman.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Can I at least buy lunch?” he asks.

  “Anytime you want.”

  Why did she say that? It’s too flirtatious, too inviting.

  “As a friend, I mean,” she quickly corrects herself.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Her tries to hold her gaze, but she looks away, looks at the napkin on her lap, starts folding it, placing it on the table.

  “Yes, that is what I want.”

  It hurts to say it. But it is what it is. And she needs to go back to work.

  He helps her into her coat. They walk together into the cold afternoon. Snowflakes fall on her face. She enjoys the crisp scent of snow. Traffic and city grime yield to the freshness of the winter air. Steam blows out of subway shafts, the breath of the city, from its lungs and from its gutters, warm, stale and dirty, yet slightly sweet, as unmistakable a smell of New York as honey roasted almonds.

  “So you really did quit smoking,” she says.

  “You noticed.”

  29

  A Busy Day

  It’s been two weeks since I helped Mami pack. Two weeks since her bizarre late-night confession. Two weeks of restlessness and thinking. And finally, today, after more soul-searching than a gal can stand, I take the day off work. I have three important appointments, two of which are decidedly unpleasant. The third one I’m mildly excited about.

  I spend the morning getting ready. I want to look my best, and I need extra pampering to soothe my frazzled nerves. I had trouble falling asleep last night, anticipating the horrors ahead. In the light of day I feel bold, almost rebellious. I m
ake myself a cup of instant coffee. I recently discovered this is a cheap alternative to contributing money towards Rachelle’s gourmet coffee fund. I pour skim milk liberally into my cup. It’s organic and comes in a colorful carton with pictures of cheerful little cows. Văcuţe. Because there are a few things a girl should never scrounge on, and milk is one of them. Even Mami buys organic. Or rather, I should say, especially Mami buys organic. She’s so compulsive about food, after all.

  I eat two boiled eggs (also organic), and some whole grain toast (the regular stuff, because I can’t afford the really wholesome kind). I set the peeled eggs on a plate, cut them in half, squeeze some lemon juice on them, and surround them with pitted kalamata olives, one of my favorite treats. I spread a thin layer of butter on my toast, and pour some honey on it. A good breakfast is vital, especially on a day like today. Although I made lunch reservations at a nice restaurant, under the circumstances, I’ll probably just sit there, picking at my salad, too nervous to eat.

  I take a long shower, then slip into a pair of cheap jeans from the Gap, and put on a simple black T-shirt underneath a simple black turtleneck. I don’t want to be dressed up today, and I’m certainly not out to impress anyone. I just want to be comfortable, and look relatively decent. The only thing remotely fancy that I wear is my cream leather bag, by now a little beat up, but still luxurious to me. In it I’m carrying over a thousand dollars in cash. It’s money I’ve been saving from Rachelle’s French lessons, as well as from my weekly budget. I’ve stolen some money tricks from Rachelle. I’ve learned the only way to budget is by giving myself a weekly allowance. I end up with three lean days each week, but that is way better than two lean weeks at the end of each month. I also go through my wallet every now and then, and put each five dollar bill I find into a savings jar. It adds up, you know?

  I wonder what Rachelle would think of me blowing the entire French lesson fund. She was so sassy in warning me to save it. I guess she can go fuck herself. It’s my money, not hers. I needn’t give anybody explanations for what I do with my own stack of cash. ‘Today, I am a woman,’ I tell myself. I check out my reflection in a storefront window. A touch of elegance, the leather bag, but other than that, just an ordinary girl, a little drab, and a little scared. ‘Today, I am a woman,’ I tell myself again. But I’m not sure.

  The restaurant I chose is a French Bistro. I’ve been here with Tati and Momo. It’s not casual, yet not quite elegant. It’s a nice place for lunch, although my guests are used to fancier fare. At least it’s nice enough for me. Cozy, and European. And the food is delicious. Too bad I’ll be too nervous to enjoy it. A wooden board on the wall announces that oysters are in season. Oysters. Huitres. Stridii (?) I love oysters. It’s Tati who taught me to like them. I haven’t had any this year. But in my state of agitation, whatever I order will be wasted. And throwing away oysters, good, juicy, salty oysters, would be a sin.

  Sitting alone at the table, I wonder if they’ll even show up. Then, finally, here they are. I force myself to smile. I watch the hostess direct them to my table, admire Joan’s silhouette in a well tailored suit, notice that Gretchen has changed her hair color.

  Greeting each other is awkward. Joan remains cold. I mirror her demeanor. I force myself to continue smiling. I won’t bend over backwards to be nice. But I’ll be polite. Politeness is important.

  Gretchen only acknowledges me with a subtle nod. She sits down, taps her manicured nails on the table. The red hair doesn’t really suit her.

  We order drinks. Joan asks for iced tea. Looking at her Cartier watch, she says pointedly that she’ll have to return to work soon. Gretchen orders a mixed drink she discusses in great detail with the waiter, asking for simple syrup made with Splenda. I order a glass of champagne. Joan shoots me a hostile look. I smile. I guess I feel like celebrating, just a bit.

  After all these months, facing Joan and Gretchen is not as nerve racking as I imagined. I decide to order the oysters.

  Conversation is sparse and frosty.

  I wait until I’m halfway through my oysters, before addressing the money issue.

  “So, I finally am in the position to settle my debt to you, Gretchen.”

  Gretchen raises her eyebrows. Joan removes a leather-bound notebook from her purse, and pages through it.

  “My records indicate that you owe my sister three thousand dollars,” she says. “Rent for the months of June, July, and August, of last year.”

  Her eyes meet mine. I smile.

  “Actually, I owe her one thousand dollars. Rent for August. I am finally prepared to give it to her now.”

  “No. You lived there four months. My sister kindly has waved the rent for the first month. But you must pay for the other three. I cannot believe that after all this time, you asked us here in order to offer to pay only a third of what you owe.”

  I eat another oyster, enjoy its salty sliminess, take a delicious moment to savor the aftertaste.

  “I understand where you’re coming from, Joan. I did live there for four months. Still, Gretchen is only entitled to one month’s rent.” I look at my former friend, who is stirring the ice in her now empty glass with her straw. “Here’s how things work, Gretchen. You cannot invite someone to live with you and then, a few months into it, start making demands you neglected to make at the beginning. You never mentioned rent to me when I moved in. You invited me to stay with you. For free. Three months later you changed your mind. You can’t do that. You can’t give something away, then demand to be paid for it later. I will pay you for August, because that is the month that I chose to stay after you decided to charge me.”

  The corners of Gretchen’s mouth twitch.

  “I will take you to court,” she says.

  “I guess you could. But no judge is going to rule in your favor. You can’t charge someone rent after you invited them to live in your house for free. It’s like having guests over for dinner, and then presenting them with a bill.”

  “You were not a guest! You were my roommate!”

  “No, Gretchen. I was a guest. A roommate signs a lease, and gets a key. I had a key for the month of August. I will pay for the month of August.”

  I reach inside my purse and pull out the manila envelope full of cash. Fives and tens spill out on the table. I love the sight of my heap of bills in small denominations. I know it’s a negligible sum for Joan and Gretchen. But I bet they’ve never been confronted with a table full of fives and tens before.

  “Here is the thousand dollars I owe you. I took the liberty of adding ten percent interest. And there’s an extra hundred to cover this lunch.”

  I finish my champagne, suck up the last oyster, then stand up to leave.

  “Goodbye, Gretchen. I hope you figure things out in your life. It was nice knowing you, Joan.”

  Outside, in the chill of early spring, I feel strong and empowered. I take out the folded newspaper from my purse, and look up the address again. In spite of the cold, I will walk.

  I fish inside my pockets, and put on my gloves. Good leather gloves. A present from Mami. Of course, they are not the expensive kind she sells for a living. But they are good quality leather gloves, snatched up at a sale somewhere. I remember appraising them at about twenty bucks, and being irritated with Mami for buying me a cheap present. Yet this is the second winter I’m wearing them, and each time I put them on I feel elegant and special.

  I reach the headquarters of the organization. To my surprise, it’s a beautiful brownstone. I kind of imagined a not for profit in a building crumbling with decay, where roaches roam freely, and everything smells like mold, weed, burned coffee, and stale cookies. In spite of the nice building and clean modern lobby, I cannot suppress my doubts. Of course, helping people, ‘volunteering,’ sounds good in theory, but in practice, I harbor a secret distaste for the martyr nature of people who make such things a priority. A bunch of tree-hugging, self-righteous hippies, who wear ragged clothes, don’t wash their hair, and probably smoke too much pot.


  I press the buzzer. I tell myself I’ll have to shed my prejudices. After all, I decided to give this a try, at least for a little while, if they’ll have me. It’s my lame attempt to counter the bad karma inherent in the horrible thing I’m about to do.

  To my surprise, the young woman sitting behind the receptionist’s desk is not dressed like a hippie, and her hair looks clean. She’s wearing slim cut jeans, and a white T-shirt with “Speak Free”, the name of the organization, printed in bold black letters on the front. I wonder if they’ll give me a T-shirt too.

  “Hi, are you L?” she asks. “I am Andrea. I will be interviewing you.” She motions for me to sit down on a black loveseat across from her desk. “Sorry, we don’t have much space. And we are rather informal around here.”

  I sit down. Andrea pulls over an ottoman, and gets a notebook. She looks over my resume, nodding and smiling a few times. “Wow, so you speak four romance languages! And a bit of German. That’s amazing! And you have a B.A. in English, that works well for the teaching position. Now, why are you interested in working here?”

  I adjust my purse on my lap. I’m surprised to find that I’m actually nervous.

  “I… I just think it’s a great thing to do, teaching people English, you know?” I sound like an idiot, I know it. And for some reason, I want to make a good impression. “I’d like to do something that helps people, you know.”

  “So do most of us,” Andrea says. “But there are many ways of doing something meaningful. Why this particular one? What exactly about this position attracts you?”

  I shift from playing with my purse to playing with my hair.

  “Well, I’ve always been fascinated with language.”

  “I can see that,” Andrea says.

  I try to will myself to say something intelligent.

  “I’ve been teaching my roommate French, and it has really been a very rewarding experience so far.”

  “I’m sure. But working with first-generation immigrants who sometimes don’t have the faintest notion of English is very different, and very challenging. You’ll be able to communicate with the Hispanics, of course, but a large percentage of the people we serve are Asian. They will not speak anything remotely similar to the languages you know.”