Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  Hello? What?

  Yeah, exactly how I reacted: what on earth are you talking about? So she goes, I forgot to tell you—the dog disappeared. Vanished.

  In real life, you mean?

  Yeah.

  But how would she know that?

  Again, my question. Teresa said she and her father drove the brother home that night, dried him off, warmed him up and—long story short, after a few months the kid seemed more or less okay. I mean, as okay as possible, given that the mother was dead. . . . Then one day about a year later, he said, let’s go see the dog who helped me. That’s how he put it: the dog who helped me. So they all drove to the sub base and stopped at the guard station and asked if they could see the dog. One of the guards recognized the three of them, and told them the dog hadn’t been seen since that rainy night.

  And?

  Well, the brother got really upset when he heard this. Teresa said he’s never really gotten over it; he’s been in trouble ever since. Struggled through high school, flunked out of college, can’t hold a job, can’t stay in a relationship, et cetera. On top of which, Teresa’s ex-boyfriend was supposedly a buddy to the brother, but after Teresa split up with him, the ex basically ditched the brother.

  Dale put down his mug and rubbed his eyes.

  I think Teresa’s been feeling helpless all these years, he said. You know, watching her brother get fucked up. That image of the kid in the rain, lying there with his arms around a dog . . .

  So what happened? Between you and Teresa, I mean.

  Right before I left, she told me she would let her brother know the dog’s okay. She said, I’m gonna tell him I’ve talked with someone who found out where the dog went. I’ll tell him the dog lived til it was very old, with someone else who used to work at the base—an old officer. I’m sure my brother will believe me. I’ve never lied to him, but now that I’ve had this dream, I’ll do it—I’ll tell him. I think it’ll help him.

  Doesn’t that sound kind of crazy to you, Dale? Why would Teresa’s brother believe her story?

  Because he’s desperate. Teresa plans to tell him that after the dog disappeared, a buddy of this old officer saw the dog wandering around a nearby neighborhood, lost and thin. The buddy recognized the dog and decided to adopt him. A happy ending, get it?

  It’s awfully convoluted, Dale.

  Yeah, but that’s precisely why the brother will buy it. It sounds like real life. I think Teresa’s right—she should tell her brother somebody found the dog. Maybe all he needs is to hear the dog’s okay, and his life will turn around. Sometimes it just takes the smallest thing.

  2

  Why had Dale always been her favorite of the nearest-and-dearest? Because he believed in uncomplicated answers to complex questions.

  Sure, he was the director of economic research at a big think tank. But in his personal dealings, Dale used simple emotional logic; he didn’t like digging verbal trenches. Here he was, sympathizing with some woman he’d just met who had a messed-up brother, and was possibly delusional herself. But in Dale’s world, what mattered was finding the dog.

  Is there any more coffee? he asked.

  Yeah, help yourself. But wait, I wanna see if I’ve got this right. The dog vanished—in real life, I mean—and then in Teresa’s dream, you found the dog. That is, the dog showed up in your apartment. Yes?

  Yes.

  So what are you planning to do about it?

  About what?

  About the dog.

  Hah. Yeah, the dog. What I’m planning to do is go home, take a long hot shower, and get to work.

  Good idea. By the way, how’d you manage to extricate yourself this morning?

  Not a problem. After Teresa told me all this stuff, she said she wasn’t expecting me to respond. She was just glad I’d been willing to listen. But you know, she wasn’t clingy at all. Seemed entirely normal, in fact.

  Boy, you sure know how to pick ’em, Dale.

  I knew you’d say that! Thing is, Teresa’s not making any of this up, I’m sure. She didn’t lay all this stuff on me for fun, or to mess with me. She’s not crazy, I swear. She really is glad I found the dog. In the dream, anyway.

  Doesn’t make it any less wacky.

  Depends how you look at things. Anyway, thanks for the coffee, I needed it!

  I’ll walk you to the station. We gotta mobilize, though.

  Mais oui. I’m ready. When we both have more time, I’ll ask how you are.

  Still at the museum. Nothing more to report.

  Oh yes there is, darling. There always is.

  3

  Entering the Slope Shop, Ellen bought coffee and a paper.

  Is that your boyfriend, asked Mr. Reyes. That guy you just waved to.

  Nah. A very dear friend. Known him since college.

  Ah. Looks like a nice man.

  He sure is.

  As she put her hand on the door, preparing to exit, Mr. Reyes snapped his fingers.

  Oh, wait, he said. The numbers for the Pick Seven game, the jackpot numbers . . . they were announced on TV, the night before last. And there’s been a winner, someone who bought a ticket in this neighborhood! Isn’t that great? I wrote down the winning numbers for you, but you didn’t stop by yesterday.

  Ah yes. I forgot all about it.

  You know, there are only four million or so people in Brooklyn, and they don’t all buy tickets in Park Slope. So if you’ve bought a ticket around here, your chances are actually pretty good!

  He pulled out his wallet, extracted a piece of paper, put on his glasses, and recited seven numerals, slowly.

  4

  Onrush of vertigo, as when sitting up too quickly after giving blood. A sizzle in the eardrums.

  She pulled open the shop’s door, stared at the half-full cup of coffee in her hand, and willed it to drop. The liquid splattered her jeans and pooled around her feet.

  Oh, look what I’ve done, Mr. Reyes . . .

  Don’t worry, he called as he scurried to a sink at the back of the shop. In a moment he returned with a mop and a handful of paper towels.

  Here, wipe off your pants! he ordered.

  She took the towels and did as he instructed. He mopped the linoleum as she held the door open for him.

  I’m so sorry . . .

  Her stomach kited; she leaned against the doorsill, sweat breaking out everywhere—forehead, neck, armpits, chest.

  No problem, Mr. Reyes said as he swabbed the threshold. Somebody drops their coffee here at least once week, I’m not kidding!

  Mop aloft, he headed toward the back of the shop.

  She gazed upward. Patterns in the shop’s tin ceiling, shapely blossoms in rows . . .

  What’d just happened—no, what seemed to have just happened—was a colossal error. A beyond-crazy mistake. Mr. Reyes could not have said those numbers. She’d heard him wrong.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Bye, Mr. Reyes, she called out. I’m late for work, gotta run!

  On the sidewalk, she forced herself to move. Walking (or was this staggering, or reeling—would she pass out in the middle of the sidewalk?), she headed down Ninth Street.

  Pick Seven, the game was called.

  Six-three-eight-six-oh-three-three.

  Trio, quartet.

  Total Silence

  1

  Win was home. At this hour he’d have to be; he didn’t make early-morning appointments. So why wasn’t he answering the door?

  A few more thumps produced him. The deadbolt slid sideways and he stood in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, headphones slung around his neck.

  El, what are you doing here? What time is it? Come in . . .

  Jesus, I thought you’d never hear me! It’s early, not yet ten.

  He gave his head a quick shake.

  You okay, Win?

  I’m listening to my tinnitus, he said. Aren’t you supposed to be at the museum, hanging out with the mummies?

  I need to talk with you. Something’s
happened. I’ve just—I’ve won a whole bunch of money . . .

  He frowned.

  You what?

  I won a lottery, Win. The man who sold me the ticket just told me the numbers, and I’ve won. It’s this new game, you pick seven numbers—anyway, it’s got an unbelievably huge jackpot.

  Slow down. The man who sold you . . . ?

  He’s a guy who owns the bodega where I get my coffee. Near where I live. The day before yesterday, he talked me into buying a lottery ticket, and this morning he told me the winning numbers. When I heard them, I left without telling him I’d won. Nobody else knows. I came straight here.

  Win began laughing softly.

  Ellen, for God’s sake, how d’you even know this guy got the numbers right?

  I’m sure of it. Mr. Reyes takes this stuff very seriously.

  Oh, come on . . . Did you look in the Post, or go online to check the numbers?

  I came directly from Mr. Reyes to you. I’m totally freaked out.

  Sitting on an arm of the sofa, Win shook his head, his smile partly a scowl.

  You’re acting like a kid, he said. Not your usual style.

  Check the Lottery Commission’s website for me. Please!

  Can’t, he said. My computer’s in the shop for repairs. I threw it against the wall the other day.

  You’re kidding.

  Nope. So, your lucky day, a pot of gold?

  Win, please, come with me! Let’s get the Post. I need you to tell me if this is really happening, I’m too agitated . . . I can’t even take a full breath. I feel queasy.

  He stood. Let’s hope they’ve got extra copies of yesterday’s paper, he said, or I’ll really be wasting my time.

  2

  On the sidewalk, she took his elbow.

  Listen to me, Win. We’re just gonna get the newspaper and check the numbers. We can’t let anyone around us know what’s going on. Total silence, all right?

  In the morning light his face looked sallow, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced than usual.

  All right, he replied. But if you’ve won a couple hundred thousand bucks, you’ll at least take me out to breakfast?

  The jackpot’s a whole lot bigger than a few hundred thousand. And if I’ve won, I’m gonna get right back on the subway and go home.

  To do what? Consult with your cats, see if they approve?

  I’m serious, Win. I’ll need time.

  He clucked his tongue. Like, til tomorrow?

  Listen to me! If I’ve won, I’ll need to figure out what to do. How to, you know, to live with it . . . I mean, it’ll be the end of everything—of my life as it is . . .

  They walked a few paces in silence.

  You know, Win said quietly, I’m sure you haven’t won. But do you realize you’re making it sound like you’ve received a death warrant?

  His smile was tight: he was angry.

  I don’t mean it that way, she said. It’s just such a shock, so absurd!

  It wouldn’t be the end of your life. Why make it sound that way?

  Look, I know . . . I’m just in a total tizzy.

  You sure are. The newspaper kiosk is over there. Let’s go check the numbers.

  3

  It couldn’t be. Couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.

  She checked herself in the small mirror by her apartment’s front door. Glassy-eyed, and slick with sweat. The umpteenth hot flash of the morning.

  Just sit the fuck down!

  Was it only a couple of hours ago Dale had been here, talking about Teresa? In my dream you found the dog. What exactly had occurred since then? Dale had walked with her to Mr. Reyes’ bodega. She’d purchased a coffee. Mr. Reyes read out the numbers, and she dropped the coffee. Somehow managed to get from Park Slope to Sunset Park . . . that part was a blur. She’d taken the R train, yes.

  Then she and Win bought several newspapers. Then they went to an internet café, to double-check the numbers on the Lottery Commission’s website. After which Win had called the Commission. He’d asked about the rules of the Pick Seven game. Inquired if there’d been a winner of the mega-jackpot.

  Yes, the person on the phone confirmed, there was a winner. The Commission was waiting for that person to come forward. The jackpot totaled a hundred million dollars. The winning ticket had been purchased in Brooklyn. Did Win know who the ticket-holder was?

  No, said Win, but thanks for the information.

  Pulling the ticket from her wallet, she stared at it.

  Seven numbers, black against a yellow background.

  Another wave of dizziness.

  Girl-Cat hopped up onto the table, nuzzling her wrists. Boy-Cat rubbed his cheeks calmly against her ankles.

  She kept her eyes closed til the vertigo passed, then turned over the ticket.

  The Pick Seven rules were written in plain English, exactly as Win had heard them over the phone. The winner had to notify the Commission within thirty days of the date on which the winning numbers were announced. The money wouldn’t go back into the pot unless the winner forfeited the funds by not claiming them. The winner was under no legal obligation to reward the seller of the ticket. The Commission would provide the seller with one-half percent of the jackpot.

  What did the calendar on the wall say? Twenty-eight days to go, since today was the second day since the announcement. By now, Mr. Reyes might’ve been informed that the winner had purchased the ticket at his store. He’d have no idea who the buyer was, or whether that buyer would actually check the numbers.

  Not a good idea to return there. She couldn’t lie to his face, if he asked.

  This moment, this one, this moment only. The present, the only real time. Stay in it.

  In my dream you found the dog.

  The nearest-and-dearest—what on earth to tell them? I’ve got news for you? Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

  She stood, filled a glass with water, drank it, sat down again.

  At first they’d think she was joking. Then Sophie would kick into gear and insist she go to a lawyer—like, immediately. At which point Hank would start laughing maniacally, his way of being very nervous. Anne and Dale would blabber oh my God over and over, paralyzed by astonishment. Giselle would babble in French—mon Dieu mon Dieu mon Dieu . . . but then they’d go silent, each of them. Because what more could they say? They’d be waiting for her to do something.

  Had her friendships with them ever been put to a test like this, a preposterousness exam?

  Say nothing, for now.

  The ticket lay on the kitchen counter, a wee scrap of yellow and black. She held out her hands, palms up, watching them tremble.

  Feeling, what was she feeling? An all-over numbness. How was it possible to be in possession of a lottery ticket worth a hundred million dollars and not feel a goddamn thing?

  Because this wasn’t real, hadn’t actually occurred. Not truly. It lay in the future. The future was an abstraction.

  So why not hand in the ticket right now, make this whole thing real?

  O fuck.

  More dizziness. Wasn’t it trying to tell her something?

  Her laptop lay open on her desk. She typed haste into the search-bar and clicked on a site of popular quotes.

  Whoever is in a hurry shows that the thing he is about is too big for him, said Lord Chesterfield.

  Make haste slowly, said Ben Franklin.

  No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en, said the Bard.

  Okay, take a breather, then. Almost a whole month to go. The ticket would be safe.

  Just wait.

  TWO

  Now What?

  1

  The Balcony was empty. In the nook at the far corner, the windows were wide open. That’d be the coolest spot.

  Lying on the mat, Ellen closed her eyes.

  It was nearly 2:00 p.m. by the time she finally made it to the museum. She’d called at 1:30, blaming her lateness on a delayed doctor’s appointment. The head of the department was waiting by her cubicle when she arrived.
Instead of barking at her, he’d asked if she could stay on as a freelancer til they’d found the right full-timer to replace her, which might take six weeks. Oh, and was she feeling all right? She looked a bit flushed. Was the air conditioning working okay?

  Yes, the AC was fine. And yes, she’d stay. Not for six weeks, though. Two weeks was possible.

  On her back on the mat, eyes closed, she pictured a sugar dispenser, a squat glass jar with a metal pouring-chute. It sat on her kitchen counter, full of a rust-colored blend of sugar and cinnamon.

  The ticket lay buried in what looked like dirty sand.

  Sugar and spice, everything nice . . .

  There had to be a hitch. Some sort of exclusion clause in the lottery rules. Yet she’d called the Commission herself and taken notes while on the phone. The computer program for the game altered the sequence of numerals every five seconds. To win, the numbers had to coincide with the sequence at the exact instant when the ticket vendor entered them into the system. If you won, you had to hand-deliver your ticket to the Commission by 5:00 p.m. not later than thirty days from the date on which the winning sequence was announced.

  I’ll think about it when I have time, Nola used to say. But now there was nothing to think about—the jackpot had been won, it was hers. Then how about this: I’ll feel about it when I have time. Feeling’s not your strong suit, Mel said once. Afraid of it, aren’t you? Listen, Win’s getting over his fear of it, so you can too. Practice!

  If Mel knew about the ticket, she would burst out laughing. My God, she’d say. What a banana peel you just slipped on!

  2

  An old leather punching bag hung in one of the far nooks. Ellen gave it two whacks, one with each fist, then flicked each hand to make the pain go away.

  Good lord, how stupid could a middle-aged woman look?

  Don’t hit the bag again. Just jog for now. Just run in slow circles.