Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  Benny, the chocolate-colored Labradoodle rubbed his head against my thigh, so I hugged him. When I tried to leave, he stood on his hind legs and offered me his paws.

  “He wants to waltz with you,” BL said. Her strawberry-blond hair was styled in an eighties shag she had cut herself with dog clippers. But it suited her perfectly. She wore a vintage Pucci hostess caftan with a white boa, and held her weenie-dog, Crookshank, who was dressed to match. “Dancing is Benny’s thing.”

  Why not? Benny was male with a full head of hair. I held him close and we swayed back and forth to the music. He flashed me a big doggie smile as thick white slobber spilled out of his mouth. I laughed because I couldn’t remember the last time a male had drooled over me. The glow of puppy love on Benny’s face filled me with a joy I hadn’t felt in ages. No wonder canine therapy is such a burgeoning field.

  A dishy musician type in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt lifted the front paws of Chiquita, his German shepherd, and box-stepped with him next to us. Others took their small dogs in their arms and moved rhythmically to the beat. The room swelled with canine-human bliss.

  When the song ended, I excused myself from Benny, excited to tell Pops the big news. We were going on a cruise! There was so much to do if we were going to be ready to leave in a week. This would be fantastic. It was just what he needed to cheer him up after losing his Jazz Factory gig. Plus, after I got the donation for the museum, I’d use my bigger salary to rent an apartment for the two of us. But before I could reach Pops through the sea of dogs and the humans who loved them, BL intercepted me.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she said, taking me by the hand and leading me to the basement.

  “What is it?”

  “Guess?”

  “A new pony?”

  “Oh, shut up,” BL said. “Ta da!” She pointed to one of the cat suites that had been empty the night before.

  I gasped. “Kitty!”

  BL opened the cage and placed the three-legged fuzz ball into my waiting arms. Most of his right ear was missing and had been stitched up. Scratching his head and holding him close to my heart, I felt the warm hum of his purr. “Why, you poor no-name slob, where have you been? You’re hurt.”

  Kitty meowed softly as I held him.

  “He was found bleeding near Hudson and North Moore. A Good Samaritan took him to Bide-a-wee,” BL said. “They got my address through the microchip the vet implanted when you first found him.”

  “What happened to his ear?”

  “Doctor thinks he got into a fight somewhere.”

  “Where have you been wandering, you little drifter, you? Did you want to see the world? Look at what a mess you are,” I said, “just like your human, yes you are.” Smiling, I took BL into our hug. “How can I thank you?”

  “After you and Kitty reunite, you can come upstairs and help me with yappy hour,” she said. “We’re about to play pin the tail on the human.”

  I giggled. Thoughts of Alessandro and work evaporated, at least for the moment.

  Why Can’t You Behave?

  HOLD STILL. WE’RE ALMOST done,” Archie said. “I just have to rinse. Ten words. Two words. Two words…” I clapped my hands twice. Archibald Carbunkle was the balding, rotund groomer at Muttropolis. He suffered from a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder that caused him to announce his word count anytime he spoke. It took two claps to get him to stop. That was his rule. If he miscalculated his word count (which I’d never seen him do), then he had to lick every lightbulb in the room. This was also his rule.

  Pops had his head in the canine/feline bath while Archie washed his hair with Doctors Foster & Smith Flea and Tick Shampoo. I offered to run to Duane Reade and pick up people shampoo.

  “No, no, dog shampoo’s good enough for me,” Pops insisted. “In fact, I cut my nails with canine clippers and brush my hair with Benny’s brush.”

  “Lies and deceit,” I cried. “Your hair hasn’t been brushed in days.”

  “She’s right,” Archie said. “You look like a mutt. But I’m going to release your inner poodle and then I want to see some pride from you. Do you see how your hair’s got a natural curl to it? Thirty-six words. Two words. Two words…”

  I clapped twice. Archie counted hyphenated words as one.

  “No girlie cuts,” Pops insisted.

  “How about something wavy and short like a King Charles spaniel?” Nigel suggested.

  “If you’re going spaniel, go cocker,” I said, “like Lady and the Tramp.”

  “Cocker works for me,” Archie said, reaching for his trimmer. “Does cocker work for you? Nine words. Two words. Two words…”

  Clap. Clap.

  “Yes, but don’t touch the beard,” Pops said, his hands protecting his face. “I need it for panhandling.”

  “Mr. Ross,” Nigel said. “Are you planning to beg for change on the ship, hmm? I thought not. You can grow it back later.”

  “But it makes me look like a sea captain,” he groused.

  “Off with your beard,” Archie declared. “Four words. Two words. Two words…”

  Clap. Clap.

  Pops closed his eyes as Archie shaved his face. I’d never seen my father without the beard (at least not that I could remember). Archie clipped his hair until half of it was on the floor. He styled the cut, which I’d describe as conservative cocker, then streaked his gray locks with a black Magic Marker to give him a more regal salt-and-pepper look. Finally, he added a touch of grooming spray to hold the cut.

  “You look ten years younger,” Nigel marveled, handing Pops a mirror.

  “I do?” Pops said, grinning at the reflection of his popcorn kernel smile. “Yes, I do!”

  I was proud. Pops was a new man, bearing little resemblance to the homeless dog minder slash jazz musician he really was.

  “Take this with you,” Archie said, handing Pops the black marker. “You can touch up the hair whenever you need to. Fourteen words. Two words…”

  “Thanks,” Pops said, clapping twice. “You, Archibald, are a true artist.”

  POPS STOOD IN FRONT of the mirror as Mrs. Weidermeyer, the museum’s stooped Eastern European seamstress, pinned his Armani tuxedo sleeve. Mrs. Weidermeyer was all of four feet tall with the posture of a shrimp, which made hem pinning easy for her, since her head automatically faced down.

  Nigel had called a few of his publicist friends at the top men’s fashion houses, and a first-class wardrobe magically appeared the next day. Of course, it would all have to go back after the cruise, but for now, Pops was marveling at the sight of himself looking so dapper.

  “Ouch!” Pops shouted. “You just stuck me with a pin.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross, but you need to stop squirming or we’ll never get this done,” Mrs. Weidermeyer said.

  “Please, Mrs. Weidermeyer, call me by my Christian name, Sven. And can’t you see that I don’t want our time together to end?” Pops said in a playful voice.

  “Sven, don’t, I’m a married woman,” Mrs. Weidermeyer said, waving him away. But the flush in her face said, do, do.

  I’d never seen this side of my father. In the years since he lost his cat-minding job on Park Avenue, he had fallen into a state of dishevelment, adopting a grungy homeless look that didn’t foster flirting. Seeing him dressed up like this, all proud and debonair, made me more determined than ever to get that promotion. With a better job, I could give Pops an apartment of his own, new clothes, a full refrigerator, an electric Rascal Powerchair to toot around on when he became old and infirm—a good life, a life where he wouldn’t have to sleep with dogs. For now, he’d have to settle for a wonderful adventure at sea.

  After Mrs. Weidermeyer pinned the last pair of pants, we cabbed over to the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa, where Nigel had arranged for the three of us to get manicures, pedicures, and facials. The museum had done a cross promotion with the spa at our last yearly benefit. They had donated hundred-dollar certificates for the gift bags and we had a pile of them left over.


  Pops was not pedicure-friendly. Every time the technician rubbed his foot with the pumice sponge stones, he’d yelp and pull out of the water. “That tickles,” he’d say. “Stop, I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Contain yourself,” I said to him. “If you can’t, they’ll have to put you to sleep.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?” he said, splashing his foot out again. “Ouch, how do you ladies stand it?”

  “Honey, a girl must suffer for her beauty,” Nigel said. “So what airline are you taking?”

  “Lufthansa,” I said. “We have to stop in Frankfurt in both directions.”

  “First class all the way, eh, luv?”

  “Well, actually, I traded in our first-class seats for two in coach. We’ll use the difference for spending money.”

  “Why, that’s brilliant.”

  “But I couldn’t get us seats together,” I said to Pops. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “’Course not,” he said. “I plan to sleep on the way over.”

  “Don’t forget,” Nigel said, “you have to check the costumes at the special international courier counter. They’ll x-ray the trunk, escort it and you to the gate, and let you watch them load it on the plane.” Even though the dresses were only reproductions, we were transferring them as we would any precious cargo on loan to another museum. They were insured for eighty thousand dollars, too much to trust to a baggage handler’s care.

  “Do I get to ride on one of those electric carts?”

  “Only if you’re very polite,” Nigel said.

  “Aren’t I always?” I said. “Will you arrange for me to watch them move the trunk to the plane we’re catching in Frankfurt, and then pick it up at the gate when we land in Athens?”

  “Of course, luv. You’ll follow it every step of the way.”

  As our feet were being scrubbed and our fingernails buffed, we role-played Pops speaking to the other cruise passengers. He didn’t want anyone to know his real circumstance. For this trip, Pops would be Sven Ross, concert pianist.

  “So, do you enjoy classical music?” Pops inquired. “Maybe you’ve seen me perform with the New York Philharmonic.”

  “Don’t mention any specific orchestras people might know,” I suggested. “Here’s an idea. When you’re talking to people, pretend you’re an actor playing a concert pianist and you’re improvising scenes. Just answer their questions the way you think Leonard Bernstein would.”

  “Funny you should mention Len. I’m playing a duet with him in Brussels next summer,” Pops said.

  “Isn’t he dead?” I asked.

  “No,” Pops said. “I had dinner with him last Sunday at the Quilted Giraffe.”

  “The Quilted Giraffe has closed and Bernstein’s dead,” Nigel said.

  “So that’s why he was so quiet,” Pops mused.

  I wagged my finger at him. “Oh, you-ou.”

  “Why don’t you say you’re a jazz pianist? Most people don’t know the names of famous jazz players,” Nigel said.

  “I am a jazz pianist,” Pops said.

  “So it will be easy,” Nigel declared. “Now, talk to Holly like she’s an old biddy looking for action on the ship.”

  “Really, Nigel, you don’t have to Henry Higgins me,” Pops said.

  “Ah, but I do,” Nigel replied. “It has been ages since you’ve moved in such swell circles. Now, how would you talk to a smashing old bird you meet sitting at the bar?”

  Pops cleared his throat. “So enough about me, tell me about you, gorgeous.”

  “Brilliant,” Nigel said. “Everyone loves to talk about themselves. In fact, when you’re with a woman, just keep repeating, ‘Why, that’s fascinating. Tell me more.’ They’ll love you for that. But don’t call the ladies on this ship ‘gorgeous.’ That would be rude.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “This crowd requires a higher level of manners than you’re used to.”

  “Holly,” Pops said. “In life, it’s not a question of good manners or bad manners. One must have the same manners for all humans, and dogs for that matter.”

  “Fine, then treat everyone the same—like a king,” I said.

  He let out a sigh. “I can’t remember the last time I conversed with a bunch of rich geezers.”

  “It’s like sex,” Nigel explained. “Once you get started, it comes back to you.”

  Pops’ face lit up. “Now you’re talking my language. If I can’t get laid in these new duds, with this fancy haircut, I may as well pack in the ol’ pecker.”

  My stomach sank. “Pops, please. Don’t embarrass me on the ship. And whatever you do, don’t mention your ‘pecker’ to passengers. Remember, I’m on a mission. We both need me to get that donation.”

  “I know the difference between charm and smarm,” he assured me.

  The nail technician started to paint clear polish on Pops’ pinkie.

  “What’re you doing?” Pops asked, jerking his hand away.

  “You don’t want?” the young Chinese woman asked. Then she covered her mouth and giggled.

  “I believe I’m done here,” he said.

  Nigel raised his arms and snapped his fingers. “Au contraire, luv. Clarisse, he’s ready to have his nose and ear hair trimmed.”

  Turkey and Greece

  Come Fly with Me

  BY ELEVEN NEW YORK time we had been airborne for two hours. Terminally bored passengers had long since devoured the dinner of brown meat with matching gravy, potatoes au paste, broccoli à la blech, and bruised fruit torte.

  I wore my headgear, since the flight was long and I was behind in my hours, having developed a rash on my cheeks and chin from the face straps last week. The TSA Nazis confiscated my anti-fungal spray, claiming the can was too large. Do you know how hard it will be to find orthodontic anti-fungal spray in Europe? I prayed the ship stocked a decent medicated powder.

  The lights had been turned down and everyone was snoring away, having ingested powerful sedatives on takeoff. But not me. I stayed awake so I could mentally fly the plane.

  I watched the movie for a while, Oceans Fourteen or maybe Eighteen. It was hard to tell because the actors were speaking dubbed German. If there was a way to watch the film in English, I couldn’t figure it out. So I pulled out my book on the history of the British monarchy. I’d grown fascinated with the royals when we were putting together the Tiaras through Time show.

  The munchkin behind me whined to his mother, “I want a titty taste; I want a titty taste.”

  “That’s not the proper way to ask for the breast, Morgan,” his mom said.

  “I want a titty taste…please.”

  “That’s better, sweetheart.”

  Call me old-fashioned, but it seems to me that if a kid is old enough to ask for it in a full sentence, he’s old enough to drink from a sippy cup.

  A ruckus in the front of the cabin interrupted my reading. There was pounding on a wall or door, screaming, and people moving about. Just what a shaky flyer like me fears most—an “incident” at thirty-five thousand feet. I peered around the seat in front of me, but it was dark and I couldn’t see what was happening.

  A muscular, compact man a few rows ahead rushed to the action. Hopefully he was an air marshal packing heat. Soon the plane banked to the right until it made a midair U-turn. What the…? Most people were asleep so they didn’t witness the ensuing drama. A steward named Stewart (it said so on his name tag) came down the aisle to make sure everyone’s seat belt was on.

  “What’s happening?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “There was an ‘incident’ up front,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “But not to worry, the instigators are in custody. Unfortunately, we have to circle back to Kennedy.”

  “Huh?” the man in the rumpled suit who had been sleeping next to me mumbled. “What?”

  “We have to return,” Stewart said. “I’m sorry.”

  The guy hit a button on his watch and the face lit up. “Jesus, w
e have to fly all the way back, then get the terrorists off the plane, and eight more hours to Frankfurt. What a waste of time.”

  “Terrorists,” I said. “You think that’s what this is?”

  The man nodded knowingly. “If they think we’re a threat to anyone on the ground, they’ll send fighter jets to take us down.”

  Moaning, I was officially about to puke. I slunk into my seat, paralyzed with fear. In the face of danger, I am a worthless slug. I vowed to work on that if I lived.

  Dear Lord, I prayed, don’t let this be the end of the story for me. I wondered if the New York Times would run my death notice. Not likely, since I hadn’t done anything noteworthy. My obit would have to go in the paid section, that is, if any of my friends would even pay for it, and who among them could afford it? None of them, that’s who. I’m soooo scared. What will it feel like to die? Will it hurt? Will it be fast? Will there be a ghost whisperer? For Pops’ sake, I hope so. He loves that show…Wait, what about Pops? Excuse the interruption, Lord, but I need to tend to my earthly father.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and tentatively made my way to the front of the cabin where he was seated, but he wasn’t there. I checked the bathroom, but both stalls were open. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to an aging stewardess who was sitting down, reading USA Today. “I’m looking for my father. He’s in ten-c. He’s got grayish hair; he’s wearing tan corduroy pants…”

  “That’s your father?” she said. “He’s up front.”

  “Oh, you upgraded him?”

  She gave me a slow, appraising glance. “Not exactly. Come.”

  We walked through the business class cabin. In the kitchen space, by the door, there was Pops sitting in one of the jump seats usually reserved for crew. Next to him was a leggy, highly made up bottle-blonde in a dress so tight her breasts were hiked up to her chin. Both had their hands in their laps; both were wearing handcuffs.