Oreo

by Ross, Fran

  While Oreo was fuming, the door opened and two little boys, about six and seven, came in. Their identical cream-colored shirts and navy-blue caps, ties, and short pants suggested a school uniform or a mother with a twin fetish. They had latchkeys on chains around their necks and were carrying small plaid suitcases. The boys stood in front of the door, which they had not closed completely, rubbing what looked like black track shoes against the pitiful calves of their spindly legs and wrinkling their navy-blue knee socks, which they then hiked while keeping their eyes on Mrs. Schwartz and Oreo. They looked like frightened voles. Their large gold-brown lemur eyes seemed to be searching out escape routes.

  “Close the door,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “If I have told you once, I have told you thirty-two and five-eighths times.”

  The little things that give a foreigner away, thought Oreo. She probably says “Vanzetti and Sacco” too.

  Reluctantly, the older of the two did as he was told. He jiggled the knob a few times as if to make sure he was not locked in.

  “Come here and meet our visitor,” Mrs. Schwartz commanded.

  The children edged forward, eyes looming.

  “Marvin, Edgar, say hello to Miss Christie.”

  “Anna,” Oreo said.

  “No—children should show respect for their elders,” Mrs. Schwartz insisted.

  The children aspirated almost inaudible hellos. Oreo gave them the expected pat on their caps, but they did not expect it and shied away.

  “Go put your toys away,” Mrs. Schwartz directed.

  “So that’s what’s in those suitcases,” said Oreo.

  The woman looked at her strangely. “The suitcase is the toy. Miss Christie.”

  “Of course,” Oreo quickly amended.

  “It is what they like to play with,” she said defensively.

  “Certainly,” said Oreo. What would those little voles have in their suitcase toys? Roadmap toys, spare-clothing toys, K-ration toys, Dr. Scholl’s toys?

  “And take off those silly track shoes. They are ruining the floor,” Mrs. Schwartz said as the boys clattered into their room.

  For the first time, Oreo noticed that the parquet swath from the front door to the children’s room did bear a certain resemblance to Cobb’s Creek Golf Links. Either that or the floor had never recovered from a bad case of a pox on this house.

  “They don’t look much like you,” Oreo said, trying to hide the fact that it was a compliment to Mrs. Schwartz.

  The woman obviously divined the flattery. She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “They are adopted. My own children . . . died. I felt the loss keenly and adopted these children . . . after.”

  She confided to Oreo that her first husband had been somewhat frivolous. His woolly-headed schemes had gotten him fleeced on several occasions. But their children had been dear to them both, their loss almost unbearable. To assuage her pain, she adopted the first children who came along—much to her regret. She was very disappointed in them. They were afraid of slime mold. (“They remind me of a certain animal I used to see when I was a child,” she said. “I don’t know the English word for it.” Oreo smiled and said, “Vole.”) Now all she wanted was children of her own loins. One of the things she was experimenting with was a pill that put the pleasure back into parturition. Mrs. Schwartz gestured to her equipment—occult and natural. “In this age of scientific miracles, man should no longer have to undergo the pain of childbirth,” she said determinedly. She shook her head as though to clear it of further illogic. “But why am I boring you with my life story? I must fix that lunch I promised you.”

  She gave Oreo a magazine to read—to keep her away from the flasks and vials, Oreo guessed. No matter. Oreo was soon engrossed in “Burp: The Course of Smiling Among Groups of Israeli Infants in the First Eighteen Months of Life,” the cover story in Pitfalls of Gynecology.

  Mrs. Schwartz came back a few minutes later, not lighting her way with her invisible torch and balancing a tray of shrimp, saltines, lemon wedges, and water cress. As she was sliding the tray onto the coffee table in front of the couch, a man walked in. Oreo knew immediately that he was her father.

  He was not exactly ugly (a litotes). He was in his early forties, had curly, almost kinky hair (which Oreo knew had been gray since his late teens), noble-savage nose and cheekbones, long cheek creases that would become dimples when he smiled, and the smug, God-favored lips of a covenant David (2 Samuel 7):

  If he had seen Oreo, he made no sign. He went straight into a room opposite the children’s.

  Mrs. Schwartz excused herself and followed him. In a few moments, Oreo heard low, angry voices coming from the room. The children opened their bedroom door a crack, showing four eyes with a frightened lemur-shine, then closed it hastily. She tried to make out what the voices were saying, but all she could distinguish was the cadence of accusation and recrimination. “Where were you all night?” she imagined Mrs. Schwartz saying. “None of your beeswax,” her father would answer. “I won’t have you lusting after the harlots of Harlem,” she would counter. “Who can shtup a woman who has one arm in the air all the time?” he would say. “It makes me think you’re trying to tell me something.”

  Oreo did not touch the shrimp, although her mouth was watering. Might as well win some brownie points for politeness, she calculated.

  A minute later, the door to the chambre de combat burst open and the Schwartzes came out. “I will not have that man coming here and frightening the children,” said Mrs. Schwartz.

  “So take the kids for a run in the park, the way you always do,” Samuel said sarcastically.

  “Someone from the landlord is here,” Mrs. Schwartz said with a warning edge on her voice.

  Oreo was ready. She took the mezuzah from her clĕvice and let it drop outside her dress. She gestured with it rather obviously as she said, “I would like to discuss the plan with your husband, Mrs. Schwartz. Mr. Jenkins wants to make sure the members of each family unit are in agreement.”

  Samuel’s eyes unfocused at the sight of the waggling mezuzah. He could have been doing a take for a hypnosis scene in a B movie. Trouper that he was, he recovered himself immediately. “Take Marvin and Edgar out. Dominic will be here any minute. I’ll see Miss . . .”

  “Christie, Anna,” Oreo said. Her father smiled what she interpreted as a chip-off-the-old-block recognition smile. Probably thinking of his lousy clues, she would bet.

  “Yes, I’ll see Miss Christie out, Mildred.”

  Without another word, Mrs. Schwartz turned on her heel and knocked on the door of the boys’ room. Inclining her head, she motioned them out. They scurried past her, clutching their little suitcases. Clack–r-i-i-p, clack–r-i-i-p went their track shoes as they passed the par 3 section of the parquet. Mrs. Schwartz walked behind them. At the door she gave Samuel a look Oreo couldn’t define, then said, “Don’t forget to have your lunch. Miss Christie.”

  When the door closed, Oreo stared at her father for several seconds without saying anything.

  “So,” he said finally.

  “So,” she said.

  “You have my eyes.”

  “I was going to say the same thing to you,” said Oreo.

  He absentmindedly picked up a shrimp. He brought it to within sniffing distance and stopped short. He threw it down violently. “I told her to get rid of this trayf. It’s spoiled!”

  The doorbell rang. “Who is it!” Samuel shouted. “Dominic,” answered a soft but penetrating voice.

  “It’s open.”

  A man built like a highboy came in. He moved as if on castors. He looked at Oreo. He looked at Samuel. “You get away with murder,” he said, snorting. “Bringing them right here to your house.”

  Samuel gave him a quick shake of the head and a look that said, “Shah!” Samuel turned to Oreo. “Excuse me a minute, Chris—Miss Christie.”

  He took Dominic into the short end of the living room’s L. There was murmured conversation for a few minutes, and when her father returned,
he said, “I have a big favor to ask of you, kid. I know we just met, and believe me I’d like nothing better than to have a real heart-to-heart right now. And I promise you, we’ll have one—as soon as you get back from an errand I want you to run for me. That is, if you want to do it.” He patted her hand and gave her an actor’s look of fake sincerity or sincere fakery—she did not know which.

  “What is it?” she said dryly.

  While Dominic lurked in the base of the L, Samuel ran down a story that Oreo knew he was making up as he went along. In his story, Dominic was a play-school director whose little charges, seven boys and seven girls, had voted unanimously that before the day was out, they absolutely had to have, would turn blue if they did not get, a bulldog they had seen on an outing with Dominic as they strolled past a downtown pet shop window. Since—wonder of wonders—the pet shop owner just happened to be one of Samuel’s very best friends, Dominic had come to him on bended knee (or oiled castors) to beg him to get a good (that is, low) price for the pedigreed dog from Minotti, said pet shop owner. Dominic could not go himself because he had a silver plate in his head (this was later confirmed when Samuel bade him remove his partial bridge—lower left molars—and, lo, it was made of silver), but he had brought with him the contributions of the parents of the fourteen children and the nickels and dimes of the children themselves. Now, since Samuel would be very busy in the next few hours, it would be awfully sweet and considerate of Christine if she would act as his agent and buy and bring back the bulldog.

  Oreo listened to this crock impassively. She now knew that she had come by her line of bullshit honestly. She told her father that she would do it. Samuel held up an envelope, which, he said, contained money and a note informing Minotti that the bearer was acting for the pet man’s good friend Schwartz. When he had had time to write such a note, Oreo did not know. And why didn’t he just phone Minotti and tell him she was coming? Tapped wires?

  Samuel wrote the name and address of the pet shop on the envelope and sealed it. “Be very careful with this money,” he said.

  Oreo noticed as she took the envelope that the “nickels and dimes” of the tykes had evidently been exchanged for paper money. She was pissed off. “Isn’t there anything you want to tell me before I go?” she said somewhat snappishly.

  “Oh, that,” Samuel said. He gave her a sly grin. “How’d you like my clues? Pretty good, eh?” He pointed to a small shelf of books near where Dominic was casting a square shadow. “The final clue to the answer is in one of those books. When you get back. I’ll see if you can guess which one.”

  Oreo was thoroughly disgusted. “Another riddle, yet!” she said, sucking her teeth.

  Samuel laughed. “You sound just like your mother.” He put his arm around her shoulder, the better to hustle her out the door. “I’ll be waiting, kid, so speed it up. I’ll watch for you at the window. Wave to me if everything’s okay.”

  “Why shouldn’t everything be okay?” Oreo asked. “It’s just a dog, right?”

  Samuel didn’t answer but smiled his fake or sincere smile.

  Oreo picked up her walking stick, which she had leaned against a phonograph console by the front door. Samuel saw her to the elevator.

  Out on the street, she turned and looked up to the second floor. Her father was at the window. He waved at her, then ducked back inside. Oreo turned and walked down the street, the tail of her black headband flying in the wind.

  14 Minos, Pasiphaë, Ariadne

  Oreo at the pet shop

  A grainy, high-contrast black-and-white photograph stippled the entire back wall. The dark mass covering the lower portion of the photograph, two-thirds of the picture area, was a rolling hillside, from which jutted, in profile, a file of bone-white tombstones, like the vertebrae of an unearthed prehistoric monster. It did not feel much like a pet shop. There were a few cages of scrawny animals, and two ink-blot Dalmatian puppies rorschached on the New York Post in the window, beneath cursive lettering that read: Minotti’s Pets. But the place lacked an aura of true “pet-shop-ness.” After a few moments, Oreo realized what was missing: musk. But how much scent could a few dogs, a monkey, a myna, and an empty fish tank muster? There was an odor in the air, dark brown and salty. What was it? Ah, yes, soy sauce. Oreo looked around. There were no cats in any of the cages. Perhaps Minotti’s was a front for a Chinese restaurant. Sinophobic slurs aside, it was obvious that the Minottis were preparing dinner.

  A short man of about sixty came out of the back room wiping his hands on a towel, which he tucked into his pants against his stove-bellied pot. He peered at Oreo over his bifocals.

  “Mr. Minotti?”

  He nodded. Oreo handed him the envelope. He opened it, looked inside. “Bovina!” he called to the closed swing door of the back room. There was no answer. He walked to the door, pushed it open, and called out again. With the door open, Oreo could hear the faint sound of a guitar.

  “What are you yelling?” a woman’s voice said impatiently.

  Minotti stepped into the back room. “Put this away,” Oreo heard him say. “And see if Adriana is ready.” He came back into the shop.

  Neither Oreo nor Minotti said anything while they waited. Oreo monkeyed with the monkey, waggling her fingers at him and making human faces. Minotti continued to peer at her over his glasses and wipe his hands on the towel. While Oreo was considering a reply to the myna’s sly “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” she heard something metallic roll past her foot and go under the monkey cage.

  “Stupido! I dropped my ring!” Minotti exclaimed.

  While he was trying to see under his pot, Oreo passed the crook of her cane under the monkey cage and hooked out three things: a dust mouse, the ring, and a Danish krone. She shoved the dust mouse back under the cage, where, she fancied, it could nibble dust cheese. She gave the ring and the coin to Minotti.

  “Ecco! My lucky piece. She’s lost now three weeks.” He closed his fingers on a kiss, then released the bacio with a quick opening and extension of his fingers, a trap unsprung. “Grazie, signorina, grazie.

  “Prego.”

  They went back to monkeying and peering. Oreo wondered where the puppy was. Surely Dominic could not have mistaken a Dalmatian for a bulldog? She did not wonder long. A woman she assumed to be Mrs. Minotti came through the swing door nuzzling and cooing at a sturdy bulldog pup.

  “Stop spoiling the dog,” Minotti said. “You act foolish sometimes, Bovina.”

  The woman shrugged to Oreo and put the dog on the floor. He frolicked around her a few times, playfully minatory, then jumped against her leg to show he wanted to be picked up again. Bulldogs had always reminded Oreo of grumpy cowboys because of their horseshoe jaws and bowlegs. This one was more like an awkward child, anxious to please. He was the first knock-kneed, smiling bulldog she had ever seen. His coat showed signs of inordinate fondling—it looked as if it came from a thrift shop. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Toro—what else?” Mrs. Minotti said proudly. She picked the dog up again. “He’s my precious bambino, eh?” The dog shoved his muzzle against her ear.

  Minotti made a derisive comment about his wife and the dog with an expressive twist of the wrist.

  “La gelosia,” said Mrs. Minotti.

  Minotti shook his head in exasperation. “Go see if Adriana is ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  The voice was that of a young woman a few years older than Oreo. She had a black shawl of hair and wore a faded blue shirt and jeans. A guitar was slung over one shoulder, and in her right hand she was holding a dog collar studded with rhinestones. She took the dog from Mrs. Minotti and put the collar around his neck.

  “Il mio bambino, il mio bambino,” murmured Mrs. Minotti.

  “Oh, Mother, for God’s sake, Toro will be back as soon as this is delivered.”

  Her mother and father both gasped and put their fingers to their lips as if to seal hers.

  The young woman laughed. “Yeah, I know. It’s s
upposed to be a deep, dark secret,” she teased. “How silly.” She turned to Oreo. “I’m Adriana, by the way.”

  “Christine,” said Oreo.

  “How are you going back?”

  “Subway. I got a little turned around coming down here. Lost my maps. I’m new in town,” Oreo explained.

  “I’m going that way—to the corner, anyway. I’ll show you how to get where you’re going.”

  “Thanks,” said Oreo.

  “You’ll need a carrier. This is an active little bugger.”

  “Adriana,” her father protested, with a pleading look.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll watch my language. Be right back.” She left and came back in a few minutes with a black carrying case for the dog.

  Mrs. Minotti gave Toro one more kiss and put him into the case. He whined for a few moments, then was quiet.

  “Can you manage this and your cane too?” Adriana asked Oreo.

  “I think so.” Oreo picked up the case. “It’s not heavy.”

  “Okay, we’re off.” Adriana kissed her mother and father. “See you in a few hours—right after the concert.”

  “‘Concert,’ she calls it,” Minotti said.

  “Don’t knock it, babbo. It pays the rent.”

  Oreo and Adriana on a traffic island

  The light seemed to be in the running for longest in the embarrassed history of red. Oreo saw an opening between a beetling Volkswagen and a bounding Jaguar. She timed her move and darted to the other side of the street.

  Adriana was stranded on the island. She waved to Oreo.

  “Change at Forty-second Street!” she shouted. “Follow the arrows for the IRT!”

  “Forty-second Street. Arrows,” Oreo said, nodding her head. She waved her walking stick to Adriana. The last glimpse Oreo had of her was when a woman who looked like a Minerva flew onto the island, a racking Pinto narrowly missing her heels. The woman turned the smooth button eyes of an owl now toward Adriana, now away, her small hooked nose beaking this way and that as she gazed, unblinking, at the traffic.