Faithful

by Alice Hoffman

  “Tell the truth,” Jasmine asks her grandmother once her mother has gone. “How come you’re out here with Shelby?”

  “Oh, Shelby’s not so bad,” Mrs. Diaz says. She looks Shelby over, then nods. “I’ve changed my mind about her. We’re girlfriends now.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Shelby is a volunteer at the Humane Society on Fifty-Ninth Street. She began with dog walking, coaxing frightened creatures large and small out of their cages after their arrival, training suspicious pit bulls and overwrought dachshunds to walk calmly on a leash. She’s quickly progressed to being a member of the intake team for abandoned and abused dogs. She’s there on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights at the intake desk, ready with blankets and kibble. She is in charge of the initial exam before the new arrival goes to be seen by a vet tech. Are there wounds, worms, fleas? Is the dog friendly, frightened, aggressive? The adoptable puppies and dogs bring Shelby joy. They are bathed and fed and photographed for the newsletter and website. But then there are the old dogs, the ones who refuse to look up because they’ve been beaten or neglected. Every night it is a challenge not to bring another dog home.

  Shelby understands abandonment and loneliness. Her desire to do right for these creatures is what fuels her. She works odd hours, fills in when other people go on vacation, is willing to deal with the vicious, the mistrustful, the beaten, the desperate. At night, she cuddles up with the General and Blinkie. They both snore, but she wouldn’t think of tossing them out of bed. She thinks of Ben, and how she didn’t value him when she had him. Some nights she dreams of Helene, and when she wakes she’s crying. She hasn’t gotten a postcard in some time, and what she misses most is someone knowing she’s alive.

  People like Shelby don’t beg for human companionship. They don’t sign up at dating services, or write profiles, or wait in a Chinese restaurant with sweaty palms wearing a black dress. They don’t even wear dresses, but there she is on a Thursday night ordering a Tsingtao beer as she waits for the stranger she met online to appear. She blames Maravelle for convincing her she should get back into the dating world after the mess with Harper. Likely she’s here because loneliness can drive even the most alienated person to attempt to make contact with another soul, even when it’s via a soulless medium. Loneliness is something Shelby thought she could overcome. She told herself being alone was what she wanted, but lately she finds herself looking at couples and hating them just because they’re happy. She blames herself for her situation. She ditched a true-blue boyfriend for a married man. She never asked the right questions, like Why are you still living with your wife if you’re so crazy about me? or What do you do every other night of the week? Now a year has passed since the breakup with Harper. Would she even remember how to have sex? Does she still have a heart left to break? She watches movies she would have had contempt for in the past, sappy romantic comedies, and she actually cries when star-crossed lovers find their way back to each other. She’s sat through Bridget Jones’s Diary fifteen times. Sometimes the only person she speaks to during an entire weekend is one of the delivery guys from Hunan Kitchen. The sad guy has disappeared, and now there’s a new person every time. Shelby has the feeling all of the delivery guys refer to her as the crazy girl who can’t shut up. They probably draw straws to see who’s the unlucky one to bring her General Tso’s chicken and steamed rice.

  It took two weeks for Shelby to complete her dating profile. She’d written term papers in less time. She couldn’t seem to get it right. She had no desire to look inside her soul and analyze her needs. She couldn’t write down the truth, which is simply that she needs someone to remind her she’s alive.

  Twenty-five-year-old woman who carries around guilt, sorrow, and strange desires looking for a man between the ages 20 and 35 who knows how to laugh. I would rather run through the park with a bulldog than have a diamond ring. I don’t care what you look like and I hope you don’t care about that either. I’m so pale some people assume I’m a vampire. I’m not afraid of a fight. I don’t drive or wear lipstick.

  Turn-ons: Chinese food, New York City, fire escapes, lost souls.

  Turn-offs: people, the past, men who are liars.

  When she sent her profile in, someone from the dating service named Mandy Cohen phoned to suggest she make certain changes before posting. “This is pretty harsh,” Mandy told her. So now her profile is simplified.

  Unusual woman looking for interesting man.

  Loves Chinese food, long walks, New York City.

  Shelby insisted on tagging on a line. She needed a statement of purpose, otherwise she would seem like an empty shell.

  Hopes to save a small part of the world.

  She can’t understand why, but she’s had over fifty responses. Totally unexpected. A landslide of possible dating material. As it turns out, she appeals to a hell of a lot more people than she would have ever imagined. Maybe they picture her as a modern-day Joan of Arc, a fighter with a heart of gold who likes to take long walks and is great in bed. Unfortunately, most of the guys who write to her seem like jerks. One who might have been a possibility wrote that he, too, always wanted to save the world and they were clearly kindred spirits. He had been to Africa with the Peace Corps and now worked for a church group. When Shelby called him he was so serious and kindhearted she rescued him by hanging up on him. She wasn’t the girl for him. She’d only make him miserable.

  There was only one other respondent who appealed to Shelby, and she didn’t ruin it by talking to him on the phone. His email had made her laugh, so they’d arranged to have dinner. But now the time has come for reality, and Shelby finds herself hoping he won’t show. They use code names at this service. She is Darklady, a totally stupid name chosen on a sleepless night. What was she thinking? Was she supposed to sound sexy? Exotic? Like a sci-fi fan? It’s a persona her seventeen-year-old self would have chosen. Her date is Youonlylivetwice, moronic but nonthreatening. They’d messaged back and forth—only a line or two at a time. He’d written, Don’t think I’m a James Bond fan. I forgot that was a Bond title when I picked my handle. That’s when she’d started liking him.

  Who says handle? she’d written back. What are you, a teapot?

  Let’s not discuss drugs via the internet, he’d quipped. Tea. Pot. Seems like you have a one-track mind.

  She was smoking weed when she read his response, and for a moment she felt like she’d actually found her soul mate and he could somehow intuit her true essence, as if things like that ever happened. Still, there was something about this one that made her feel he was a possibility. His turn of a phrase. His love of the New York Mets, which meant a penchant for losers. His low expectations. I just want to be happy, he told her.

  Have you ever cheated on a girlfriend? she wrote when she felt she knew him well enough to ask a personal question.

  Never would. Never could.

  Everyone has a bottom line, and this is Shelby’s. She’d cheated on someone and she’d been cheated on, and she didn’t know which was worse.

  I don’t believe in cheating, he’d written. It would be like shooting Bambi. Who can shoot Bambi and feel okay with himself?

  Bambi is a story, she’d written back, moved by the reference.

  Bambi is a cultural signpost for morality.

  What do you believe in?

  Live and let die, he’d written. Somehow the code name didn’t seem as moronic.

  Do we or don’t we? she’d typed when the time came for them to meet. A month had passed since their initial contact.

  Oh we do, he’d written. How could I lose you when I haven’t even found you?

  So she’s up to this part, the sweating hands, the black dress, the I should have never done this moment. The meeting place is a Chinese restaurant on Mott Street, a more upscale sort of place than the ones Shelby usually frequents. Tablecloths, cocktails. His choice. And yet he’s late.

 
“I’m waiting for someone,” Shelby says when the waiter hovers near, clearly annoyed that she’s taking up table space without ordering anything. He has started tapping his pen on his order pad and muttering. “He’s late,” Shelby tells him. “There’s traffic.”

  The waiter shrugs. “Maybe he’s not coming.”

  Shelby feels flushed. “Fine. I’ll have a beer. Tsingtao.”

  The waiter looks at her with pity.

  “And an order of pork dumplings. Steamed, not fried. And brown rice.”

  “For two or one?”

  The waiter’s tone makes her want to announce that she doesn’t plan on leaving a tip. Shelby glares at him. “For two.”

  If her date doesn’t show the waiter will know she’s a ghost and she’ll have to eat two orders of dumplings by herself.

  A light rain is falling and outside the street is slick. It will be hard to get a cab on a night like this. About as hard as it is to trust anyone in this world. Shelby begins on the dumplings as soon as they’re delivered. She eats like a starving person. Her mouth is full when she looks up to see her date in the doorway, dripping rain, wearing a tan trench coat, shoving a hand through his long, bedraggled hair. Of course, Shelby thinks as he gazes around the room for his date. This is the way it happens. This is what I deserve. The man in the doorway is her old boyfriend Ben Mink.

  He searches the room, expectant, though he’s clearly soaked to the skin. He looks great, no longer skinny or gawky, just a tall, hopeful, good-looking man. It’s horrible to see the disappointment on his face when he sees her. He looks as if he’s been slapped.

  Shelby feels a pit in her stomach, but she forces herself to wave. There’s no way out of this. “Hey,” she calls. “Ben! Over here.”

  He stares at her, confused.

  “It’s me. Shelby.”

  When she signals him over, Ben gazes around at the other customers as if making a silent plea for help. No one meets his glance, so he cautiously makes his way over. He’s much taller than Shelby remembered. He has a bunch of dripping wet tulips in his hand.

  “Hey, Shelby.” Ben notices she’s begun eating. “Dumplings. Of course.”

  “Two orders. I’m still a pig.” Her hands are sweating even more.

  “Well, good to see you.” Ben appears desperate to escape. “I’m meeting someone,” he explains.

  “Yeah, me,” Shelby tells him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Darklady? That’s me.”

  Ben narrows his eyes. Then he gets it. She can almost see the truth of their current situation hit him. He slinks down into the chair opposite her.

  “What are the odds?” she says with forced lightness.

  The waiter comes over. “More beer?”

  “Sure,” Shelby says cheerfully. She feels like slitting her wrists. “Make it two.”

  “How the hell do you come to be Darklady?” Ben looks like he’s been the victim of a Ponzi scheme. “You’re just about the palest person I’ve ever met. Have you ever even been in the sun?”

  “Dark emotionally. Don’t take things so literally, Ben.”

  “What happened to that guy?” Ben says.

  “Guy?” Shelby feels a pain shoot through her gut. Ben is staring at her.

  “The one you used to bring to our apartment. He left a jacket there once. I threw it out. I figured if I ignored the situation, it would go away. Stupid me.”

  “Ben,” Shelby says. She despises herself far more than he ever could.

  “Are you living together?” he asks coldly.

  “We broke up.”

  The beers are delivered. The waiter stands over them with his order pad.

  “We might as well eat,” Shelby says. She must be insane. She is willing to humiliate herself to keep him at the table. “We’re here.”

  “We are.” Ben turns to the waiter. “I’ll have the moo shu pork, and she’ll have the General Tso’s chicken.”

  “I’ll have the spicy shrimp,” Shelby corrects him.

  “Since when?” Ben is puzzled.

  In the past she had always ordered the same thing, but she wants to shock him and make herself seem like a changed woman. “Since now. And I’ll take the shrimp toast. And shrimp lo mein.”

  They sit there staring at each other. “Maybe I’ll get mine to go,” Ben says.

  “You know what’s interesting? The dating service thought we were perfect for each other. How crazy is that?” Shelby holds her breath hoping for the right response, whatever that is.

  “Insane,” he agrees.

  “Maybe they know something we don’t know,” she offers.

  Ben laughs out loud. “You’re kidding, right?”

  So there it is. He’s moved on. He stares at the door as if he’s really expecting someone else, his real date, a woman with long, dark hair who would never betray him by screwing around with some man she met on the street. They both gaze out the window. It’s pouring now.

  “I’d give anything for a raincoat. A really good one. Burberry.”

  “You didn’t use to like name brands.” Ben is surprised. “You used to make fun of people for spending money on stuff with logos.”

  “Well that was then. People change. I appreciate Burberry now. It’s classic. I’m wearing a damn dress, Ben.”

  “So you are,” he agrees.

  When the food arrives they stare at it. Shelby ordered too much. “What were you thinking?” Ben says.

  “It looks good.” Shelby imagines a fairy-tale scenario: if she keeps him there long enough the magic will start to work. The veil will fall from his eyes and he’ll see she’s the one for him and that she has been all along.

  The food is pretty awful, but Shelby doesn’t say so. When the waiter brings two fortune cookies, Shelby shakes her head. “We don’t want those,” she says. She is more afraid than usual to find out what her fortune is. A man you love will walk away from you and not look back. A woman will stupidly cast away a true love. A sheet of ice will await you. A dog will be your best friend.

  “Everybody wants fortune cookies,” the waiter says.

  “Well not us,” Shelby tells him.

  The waiter nods at Ben. “He wants a cookie.”

  Ben takes a cookie and nods back at the waiter. They are united against Shelby.

  “Are you serious?” Shelby says.

  Ben cracks open the cookie. All your dreams will come true. He puts the cookie on the table and pushes it away with one finger.

  “It isn’t a good idea to get a random opinion on your life,” Shelby says.

  “I should have known it was you,” Ben says.

  “Yeah?” Shelby hates shrimp and now she has a ton of it.

  “I was the one who told you, you could save the world.”

  “I should have known it was you. Bambi. That should have been a total giveaway.”

  “Yeah.” Ben laughs. “You remember?”

  “Fourth grade. You cried.”

  Ben winces and looks like his gawky old self.

  “And Jimmy whatever his name was, that tough guy who wound up in prison, hit you with some rubber bands while you were crying.” Shelby nibbles on the shrimp toast. “I got a fellowship that paid for my last year of school. I graduated.”

  “Seriously? That’s great. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I’m working at the Humane Society.” Build yourself up, Maravelle told her when Shelby called her to discuss what she thought was a blind date. Do not tell him your troubles or bring up your past. So Shelby doesn’t mention that she’s applied to vet school in case she doesn’t get in. She’s keeping things positive, something she never did when they were together.

  Ben has finished his plate of food. He takes out his wallet. “I chose the restaurant. I should pay.”

  Shelby feels
an odd panic rising in her chest. He’s about to leave her. She probably has the same crestfallen expression the stray dogs in their cages have when Shelby locks up for the night. “Already? You’re going to pay?”

  Ben leans forward. “The dating service was wrong, Shelby. We both know that.” He smiles and gets up to go. He leaves the tulips and too much money for the waiter. When he’s gone, Shelby takes five dollars off the tip and slips it into her purse. She’ll use Ben’s money to take a cab home. She leaves the flowers for the waiter. Maybe his wife will appreciate them. Maybe his wife will take him to bed and tell him she’s never loved anyone the way she loves him, not now and not ever, not in this lifetime.

  CHAPTER

  9

  When the temperatures rise into the high nineties, people in Manhattan will do just about anything to walk over green grass and find space under a shade tree, even if it means being in Valley Stream. Shelby sits in Maravelle’s backyard with the dogs. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a short plaid skirt. They’ve filled up a plastic kiddie pool bought at the local dollar store with cold water, fast turning tepid, from the garden hose. Shelby has her feet dipped in even though Pablo is taking up most of the pool, lolling around like a big polar bear. Just as she predicted, the grapevine Maravelle thought was so charming when she bought the house is now pulling the shingles off the garage. There are hundreds of bees gathered around the sweet buds, and Maravelle is doing her best to chop the whole thing down. When she gives up, she fetches them a pitcher of iced tea and some rum.

  “I thought you quit smoking,” she says when Shelby lights up.