by Janis Thomas
I approach the window of the pet shop, knowing/believing/praying that he will no longer be a prisoner in the display kennel.
My relief is palpable when I confirm my suspicions/hopes/prayers. Half a dozen furry, wiry Lab puppies scamper around the kennel. Three goldens, one blond, two black, one brown. None Charlemagne.
I stand and watch them for a few minutes, laughing at their playful antics. A dog’s life, I think, must be one of the better existences on the planet.
If the dog has a true and proper owner.
I send up a quick prayer that Charlemagne has found a good home, then glance at my watch. Eight thirty. My shoulders tighten reflexively. Richard has been gone for nearly a month, but I still experience that whoosh of panic at my impending lateness.
I am the boss, I remind myself. I will not be punished for tardiness.
I take a deep breath and give the puppies one last look.
I turn toward my car and take a step, then another. On the third step, I hear a voice behind me.
“Oh, hi. It’s you.”
I recognize the voice. It belongs to the girl from the pet shop who rescued me when I fainted, the morning everything began. Pennsylvania meets South Jersey. I turn around and force a smile.
“I thought it was you,” she says. She holds a fat window marker in her hand, neon pink by the looks of it.
“How are you feeling? I hope you ate a good breakfast this morning.”
I nod. “I’m doing well,” I tell her. “Thanks.”
“Good,” she replies simply, then she sidles up to the window and takes the cap off the marker.
I haven’t experienced that not-right feeling for weeks. It washes over me as the girl begins to write on the glass. I stare openly, and my gaze must carry force, because the girl jerks her head sharply in my direction. Her expression is questioning. My lips, my vocal cords, all frozen.
“Do you need something?” she asks.
I shake my head. She shrugs and turns back to the window. Seconds pass. Wide-sweeping hot-pink cursive soon scrolls across the lower half of the glass. I read the legend as the girl pockets the pink marker and removes another, this one neon yellow, with which she begins to highlight the words.
LAST-CHANCE SALE! HALF OFF SHEPHERD-TERRIER MIX!
Iron fist to the gut. The air rushes from my lugs. Charlemagne.
“Is that the puppy I saw in the window last time?”
The yellow marker goes still. The girl looks at me and lowers her arm. She seems to be concentrating, then she remembers. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. He was in the window that day. Yup, it’s him. Poor little guy. I thought for sure he’d get scooped.” She shakes her head sadly. “You just never know.”
“Is he the only one left from that group?”
“Yeah. But, you know, with a price cut like this . . .” She gestures to the window. “We’re hoping someone will take him home.”
“Where is he?”
“In one of the kennels in the back,” she says.
As though a string is pulling me from the center of my body, I move toward the entrance of the shop. I don’t want to go inside, do not want to see that little fuzz ball trapped behind the bars of his tiny prison. But I can’t stop myself.
The air inside the shop is thick with the scent of caged domestic animals—urine, feces, wet fur, and longing. I move on leaden legs to the back of the shop. Past aquariums rife with spectacularly colored fish, past the row of cages with frisky kittens and a show kennel filled with newly arrived Pomeranians, past stacks of feed and litter and toys. In the far back corner, away from the clamor and squawks and caterwauling of the more energetic of the would-be pets, stands a two-by-two-foot cage, and inside that cage lies a small lump of fur-covered flesh.
Charlemagne. Charlie. I kneel down, my knees protesting and my skirt stretched to the ripping point, and gaze at the puppy. His captivity hasn’t kept him from growing; he’s roughly a quarter larger than he was the last time I saw him. He’s curled in an unmoving ball, oblivious to or ambivalent toward the shreds of soiled newspaper around him.
I find my voice beneath a sturdy pile of regret. “Hey. Hey, Charlemagne.”
Seconds pass. The infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest is the only indication that he is alive.
“Charlemagne,” I say again, this time with slightly more strength. An ear twitches. A paw flinches. His eyes open, they search his cage, then land on me.
On an intellectual level, I understand that dogs are a lower species, they don’t possess complex reasoning skills or experience emotions the same way humans do. But this dog, this puppy, whom I may or may not have deprived of a comfortable life, who now lies in a cage, unknowingly awaiting whatever fate might befall him, looks upon me with a lugubrious expression, as though he just awoke from a dream in which he had a good home with a nice, albeit rowdy, family, who lived next door to a house with a monstrous tree in the front yard upon which he yearned to pee. The force of his despair is like a blow and propels me to stand up and back away. I sprint for the exit.
Outside, the girl has finished her task and meets me at the door.
“What will happen to him?” I ask. “The puppy. If no one buys him at the sale price?”
She lowers her head as she tucks the yellow marker into her pocket. Then she shrugs, and the pedestrian gesture is full of meaning. “We can’t keep ’em. You know? We try to find a shelter, but if we can’t—they’re always so full . . . so, then, we have to send them to the pound.”
My blood turns to ice at the word pound. The pound is death row for dogs.
“When?” I demand, and the girl’s mouth drops open. “When will you send him, if no one buys him?”
“The max is six weeks,” she tells me. “He’s been here almost five. So, like, ten days.”
I nod but say nothing. She gives me a final suspicious glance, then retreats into the shop.
I gaze at the front window, reading, rereading the neon legend. Movement in my peripheral vision captures my attention, and I turn to see Dolores ambling from her shop, moving in my direction. I’m not surprised. Her withered face opens in a crinkly smile as she presses her fingertips against my hand.
“Come for tea,” she says, her voice like the wings of a hummingbird.
Even as I shake my head, I follow her to the antiques shop. The girl from Paw-Tastic Pets watches us pass as she pretends to clean the inside of the display kennel.
The house, my house, is still in the front window. I stop to inspect it, and Dolores comes up beside me. Through the reflection of the glass, I see her watching me.
“Where did you get this dollhouse?” My voice is whisper thin.
“Let me think. Isn’t that strange. I can’t quite remember. My memory isn’t what it used to be, I fear. It must have been an estate sale or the like. Why do you ask?”
I turn to her. Her expression is nonchalant, but her eyes dance.
“Because it’s my house. I mean, it looks like my house.”
“Really.” Her response is an acknowledgment, not a question.
“It looks exactly like my house,” I tell her.
“Mmm, I see.” The old woman gazes at me thoughtfully. A moment passes. “Well, isn’t that wonderful?” she says. “How very lucky you are to have such a lovely home.”
Her words cause me to shiver. I clasp my arms at the elbow and return my gaze to the house. “I don’t have a tree in my front yard. We had it removed.”
Dolores touches me gently on the sleeve, then graces me with a placating smile. “Come. Let’s go inside for that tea. You look as though you could use it.”
She ambles to the entrance and pushes through the front door to the tinkling of bells. I follow wordlessly.
“Chamomile, I think.” She moves purposefully to the back of the shop as I take in my surroundings. The shop is heavily air-conditioned and smells of furniture polish and lavender. The large room is filled with bounteous treasures. I am not an expert in antiques. I have no idea wher
e or when or by whom the many chairs and couches and tables were made. But every piece is in pristine condition, and I recognize their value. A long display counter acts as a barrier between the sales floor and the back room where Dolores hums a melody. Inside the display case are knickknacks, French souvenir boxes, Lalique decorative items, crystal vases and decanters, several old-fashioned hairbrush and mirror sets, costume jewelry, cameos. Atop the counter at the far end sits another dollhouse, much smaller than the house in the front window, a one-story clapboard-sided prewar home with a white picket fence.
I gaze into the display case, and a gold pendant and chain catches my eye. I lean down for a closer look. The pendant is engraved with the image of a lioness and a cub, and I think of Katie. She is a Leo—her birthday is the twenty-first of this month.
“Ah, here we are,” Dolores says, crossing to the counter with a china cup and saucer in hand. She carefully places the tea set on the countertop, and the steam from the hot liquid carries the aroma of chamomile flowers to my nose.
“I added a spot of honey,” she tells me, then follows my gaze to the pendant. “The lioness. I love that pendant. It dates back to 1936. So the story goes, a jeweler in New York was commissioned to make it for a young gentleman to give to his fiancée upon her return from safari. She had gone to Africa with her parents, one last trip with Mum and Dad before she was to become a wife. But alas, she never returned.”
“What happened to her?” I ask, and Dolores grins enigmatically.
“I don’t know that part of the story. The woman who gave it to me said she thought the girl had died—an accident, or an acute illness. But I like to imagine another scenario, whereby the girl, who was betrothed by her parents’ decree to a man she didn’t care for, fell madly in love with another—a guide on her safari, perhaps, some strapping young Englishman who stole her away and filled her life with joy and love.”
I can’t help but laugh at the old woman’s fanciful tale. She takes no offense; instead, she laughs along with me. “It’s a far more agreeable story, though, isn’t it?”
I nod and reach for the china cup. I lift it to my lips and take a small sip. The tea is smooth and hot and slightly sweet. Dolores peers at me, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” she says. “To eliminate the disagreeable and be left only with the good?”
Our eyes meet. My hand trembles and tea spills over the rim of the cup, splashing onto the glass counter. She knows. Somehow, she knows.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer as I set the cup on the saucer.
“Not to worry,” Dolores says. She retrieves a cloth from behind the case and deftly wipes up the spilled liquid.
But what does she know? I make a show of looking at my watch. My hand still trembles. “I’m late for work.”
“I understand,” she says quietly.
“Thank you for the tea.”
“You are quite welcome, my dear. I’m sorry if it was too hot.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Perhaps you’ll come back when you have more time. I would very much like to hear your story, both the agreeable and the disagreeable.”
A hundred questions fill my head—they butt up against one another, clamoring to be given voice. Who is this woman? Is she a part of what’s happening to me? A conspirator? The puppet master? Can she give me an explanation? Guidance? What will she say if I ask her?
I open my mouth to speak, but another question comes to mind that obscures the ones before it. Do I really want to know? I clamp my lips together and turn to leave.
“What about the pendant?” she asks. “For your leonine daughter?”
I stop dead. She knows I have a daughter, and she knows Katie is a Leo. I look at Dolores. Her expression is placid.
“I’ll give you a wonderful price. Let’s say thirty dollars, shall we?”
The pendant is probably worth four times that much. I slowly return to the display counter as Dolores removes the pendant from the case. She holds it up, then lowers it into a velvet bag. I hand her two twenty-dollar bills, and her fingers brush against mine as she takes them from me.
“I do hope you will come back, Emma. I feel there is much for us to discuss. And that I might be able to offer you some assistance.”
I never told her my name. Of course she knows it. Compared with all the other things she knows, my name seems the least astonishing.
She hands me my change along with the velvet bag.
Logistically it’s not possible, but I feel her eyes on me all the way to my car.
TWENTY-THREE
I should have stayed with Dolores. I should have sipped her tea and confessed to her and listened to her counsel. I realize my mistake as soon as I reach my office. Had I stayed in the antiques shop, I would have missed him. But there he sits, in one of my new/old chairs, facing my desk, looking angry and smug at the same time.
My ex-husband. Owen. Tension grips my neck and shoulders.
When Valerie sees me, she springs from her seat and approaches. “I tried to get him to leave, I really did, Emma, but he wouldn’t go,” she says in a rush. “I didn’t want to call security without your say-so.”
“It’s okay, Val. I’ll talk to him.” I hand her my purse. “But keep an eye out. If I give you a signal, make the call.”
She nods solemnly.
Owen doesn’t bother to stand up when I enter. He never did, not when we were married, nor when we were courting. He explained his lack of chivalry by telling me that he didn’t want to offend my feminist sensibilities, of which I had none. It was an inept excuse for his laziness. The only time he stood upon my arrival was in court, but that was for show and prompted by a swift elbow nudge from his lawyer.
I walk past his chair and glance down at him. My ex-husband looks almost decent this morning, shaved and dressed in pressed slacks and a collared shirt. He reminds me a little of the man I married. Just like Richard Green, that man never existed. Not really.
My hands clench and unclench, but I can’t stop them. I pray that things won’t get ugly, that he won’t berate and belittle me, as he is given to do, at which he excels.
He turns toward me, and the instant our eyes meet, during that briefest passage of time, a world of information is transferred to me. The new me.
I always cowered around Owen because he is a bully and his energy and life force—although negative and destructive—are overpowering. When I couldn’t avoid him, I kowtowed to him and tried to appease him just to avoid any unnecessary conflict.
But in this new reality, I have the upper hand, the power, the control. I catch the fleeting flash of deference in his expression, followed by resentment. This knowledge emboldens me.
“Good morning,” I say coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
He shakes his head with disgust then mimics me. “‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ You’re such a poser, Em.”
“And you’re an ass,” I reply. I expect him to explode with anger, and I’m almost disappointed when he remains calm.
His response is a seething whisper. “Fuck you.”
“Keep it civil, Owen, or I’ll have you removed.”
He clenches his jaw to stop his retort. “You know why I’m here.”
“Actually, I don’t.” I circle my desk and take a seat.
Again with the mimicry. “Actually, you do. I want to see my daughter. I don’t care what the judge said. Katie is my flesh and blood, and I have a right to be a part of her life.”
“You lost that right.”
Crimson splotches appear on his cheeks. “Just because you have an expensive lawyer and a great job and a respectable husband doesn’t make the situation right. You can’t buy the truth.”
“The truth?” I allow my ire to rise and inspire me in a way I never could before. “The truth, Owen, is that you are an alcoholic and a drug abuser and the farther you stay away from Katie, the better.”
He jumps out of his c
hair, but not in the way I anticipate. He doesn’t look furious, but instead imploring. “I’ve been sober for a year, and you know it.”
“I don’t know any such thing.” Or do I? A shred of a memory passes through my gray matter—a tall, middle-aged man with a short salt-and-pepper afro standing on my doorstep, Owen’s sponsor, pleading Owen’s case and swearing by all that was holy that Owen had been clean for the better part of a year. Another fragment assembles in my head—the same man seated beside Owen in court, in place of his tattooed girlfriend, futilely testifying on my ex-husband’s behalf.
Three months ago, before Charlemagne, before the wishing, Owen crashed his car into the concrete divider of an overpass, high as a hot-air balloon. His lawyer claimed Owen was having a negative reaction to prescribed antibiotics. I knew it was bullshit, but my lawyer (the lawyer in that reality) couldn’t argue the point, and the judge sided with my ex-husband.
Is it possible, in this new reality, that Owen is clean? Is it possible that my having a steady job and a steady income and a happy home life in some way motivated him to get his own life together so that he could be a part of our daughter’s?
Valerie appears at the door to my office, brow furrowed.
“Is everything all right?”
I stand. Owen’s gaze is aimed daggers. “Everything’s fine, Valerie. My ex-husband was just leaving.”
“I wasn’t,” he says.
I steel myself and meet his gaze. “Yes, you were.”
He shakes his head slowly. “This isn’t over.”
“For now it is, Owen.” I break eye contact and return to my seat, a pointedly dismissive gesture. Rage radiates off his body in waves, but he keeps himself in check. He withdraws from my office, and I track his retreat through the glass window. I want him to look defeated, shoulders slouched, eyes on the floor, but he doesn’t. His posture is straight, sure. He is not the same man I knew three months ago.
“We have a slight problem,” Val says, drawing my attention away from Owen. I turn to her. She looks worried.
