by Mary Carter
He laughs again. “No. We’re waiting. We haven’t even been on a proper date yet.”
“You fixed me several nice martinis,” I say. “And your place is much nicer than most bars I’ve been in.”
He laughs. “I mean it, Melanie. I want to do this right. How about Friday night? We finish taping the show at five, so let’s say seven?”
I search my brain for an excuse. I open my mouth to protest. Then I shut it. Because it dawns on me that this is a very adult way to handle this. It dawns on me that he really likes me and wants to treat me like a lady instead of a horny teenager. Ray would have never behaved this well—neither would eighty percent of the men in Manhattan. (I’m betting the percentage is higher but I don’t want to sound bitter so let’s just stick with eighty and give the other twenty percent the benefit of the doubt.)
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Greg says. “And I’d like to see that some day,” he adds, pointing to my portfolio. “When you’re ready.”
I open my mouth to tell him there are no clocks—that it was all a plot to get even with Trina—but then decide against it. I’ll tell him later. I don’t want anything to ruin our moment. Greg walks me out to the street where the limo is waiting to take me home. The red roses are still here. I gather them in my arms, lean back in the seat, and replay my kisses with Greg all the way home.
Chapter 28
This is how I die. Babysitting the boys. They escape from my mother’s yard and sneak in an open window at the house next door. I run across the driveway and peer in. All five of them are inside Mrs. Halliday’s house, somersaulting over a suede couch, leaving little dirty paw prints everywhere. One of them sinks his teeth into a couch pillow and starts whipping it around like a dead chicken. “Bad dog. Bad dog!” I scream from the window. He stops for a moment and looks me dead in the eye before returning to his pillow massacre. Fuck you bitch, he says with his eyes. Fuck you. To my horror a second dog sinks his teeth into pillow number two. “No! Bad dogs!” I scream into the window. “Bad dogs! Down. Get down.” It’s no use; the canines from hell aren’t paying any attention to little old me. I’m going to have to crawl in through the window and stop them before they start licking her good china.
I drag a couple of trash bins underneath the window and crawl on top of them. They wobble (like Weebles) but they don’t fall down. Must work out more, I think as I struggle to pull my body up over the windowsill. I’m halfway through when the window slams down on my ass. The dogs parade toward my dangling torso, their little butts wagging in ecstasy at my plight. I reach my hand in and try to swipe at them, but my fingers barely graze them. I flail my legs and arch my back like a seal in an effort to open the window. I’m trying not to give the dogs the satisfaction of seeing me cry, but it’s too late. Large tears of humiliation form in my eyes, distorting my vision and making the boys look like white, fuzzy ghosts.
“Help!” I yell into the house. “Is anybody home?” Then I see the mess. Drawers are overturned, silverware is splayed all over the floor like a metallic jigsaw puzzle, and broken glass forms a glittering, jagged path to the kitchen. Suddenly I love the boys like they were my own and I’m afraid for their safety. “Shh,” I whisper. “Shhh.” Remarkably (as if feeling my newfound love) they stop yipping, lie down at the foot of the window, and look up at me like kindergarteners at story time. But I don’t have time to read them a story. If the burglar is still in the house, surely he’s heard us by now.
“Go get the phone, boys. Get me the phone!” One of them yawns (as if to say “this story sucks”) but none of them budge. The only sound is the ticking of a clock above the mantle. I realize it’s my Fire Clock, and I swell with pride. Then I hear footsteps from above. The boys start yipping again, running in circles like rhythmic witch dogs. A drum beats inside my chest as the footsteps near. Thud, thud, thud, down the stairs. Someone is whistling. A moment later, a large figure appears at the foot of the stairs.
He is dressed head to toe in black, and several bulging pillowcases are slung over his shoulder. In his left hand he is carrying a large, emerald sword. The boys barrel toward him in a frenzy, tripping over each other to be the first to reach him. Bloody dumb dogs sucking up to a cat burglar. The whistling stops, and the cat burglar leans over and pats each one of the dogs on the head. It’s as he’s standing back up that our eyes connect across the mangled floor. I try not to look into his eyes, but I can’t help but notice—he’s the best-looking thief I’ve ever seen. He has an incredible body and piercing blue eyes that stare out from beneath his black ski mask. I can’t help but imagine his gloved hands dragging along my stomach down toward—
“Well what do we have here.” He says it as a statement, but at the same time he’s searching my eyes as if for an answer. His voice is muffled but pleasantly deep. “Please,” I croak. “I didn’t know you were here. I just came for my dogs,” I say, lowering my eyes again. He looks at the dogs and then back at me. Then he looks toward the kitchen. “Why didn’t you just use the back door?” he says. I look to where he points, and damn if the back door isn’t wide open. “So that’s how they got in,” I say, and he laughs. I laugh too, and despite the fact that I have to pee like a racehorse and I may soon have my throat cut by a burglar with a sword, I’m feeling pretty giddy. “What’s your name?” he asks as if we’ve just met in a bar.
“Melanie Zeitgar,” I say, remembering from somewhere you’re less likely to be killed if they know you have a name. But, Jesus, did I have to give him my real one? “Melanie Zeitgar,” he repeats. “What’s yours?” I try. He laughs again. “Funny,” he says. “I steal too,” I hear myself saying. Now why the bloody hell did I say that? Am I flirting? What the hell is the matter with me? He looks at me for a few moments and then laughs. “Sorry but we’re not hiring at the moment,” he says. I can’t see his face but I know he’s smiling underneath the mask. “Oh, I don’t do houses,” I reply. “Shoplifting is my thing.”
I don’t know how he takes this. His back is to me now. He’s heading toward the back door. He stops short of exiting. “Crime doesn’t pay,” he says good naturedly. “Then why do you do it?” I call after him, wishing he wouldn’t leave. He doesn’t turn back around, but his shoulders lift in a shrug. “Because I can,” he says at last. Then he gives me a wave over his shoulder. “Well, good luck to you, Melanie Zeitgar,” he says. And then just as he reaches the door, he suddenly whirls around, points the emerald sword toward my heart, and charges. My last thought before I’m skewered like a pig is that he never even asked for my phone number. The next day Jane Greer from Fifth Avenue Temps reads about my death in the New York Times. The headline screams, “Melanie Zeitgar Murdered By Cat Burglar While Dog Sitting.” “I knew it,” she whispers to no one in particular. “I knew that bitch was never in a one-woman show.”
I should have never picked up the phone. First of all, it was the middle of the day and I should have been pounding the pavement looking for work. Instead I was lying on the couch with a latte, watching Side Court and circling audition possibilities in Backstage. There was a small part of me fantasizing about my upcoming date with Greg—but I was trying to keep it at bay. After all, I reminded myself, this was going to lead to nothing more than last-person sex. “Hello,” I say distractedly into the phone. Judge Jeannie was coming on next and I didn’t want to miss it. She was the hottest new thing on Court TV. She was much racier than Judge Judy but classier than Jerry Springer. I figured I might as well watch some trash television, otherwise what’s the point of being unemployed?
“Melanie?” Oh no. Now why didn’t she show up on caller ID? “Uh, hi, Mom,” I say. “I was just running out the door.”
“What happened to your job at the law firm, Melanie?”
“Mom, I can’t talk about that right now—”
“What did you do?” she demands. I squeeze the phone as tight as I can. She always assumes I’m the one at fault. Unlike a court of law, in my family I was guilty until proven innocent. “I didn’t do a
nything, Mother,” I say.
“So you still work there? Because Zachary told me—”
“It was a temp assignment, Mom. It ended. That’s all.” There is silence at the other end of the phone. Talking to Mom was like dropping a penny down a long, dark well and waiting painfully for it to hit bottom.
“I thought this one was permanent,” my mother says in her all-knowing voice.
“Well it wasn’t,” I snap. “I’m sorry,” I say after another long moment of silence. “I’m just as frustrated as you are, Mom. I’m going to call the temp agency today and see if they have another assignment for me.” Lies, lies, and more lies! Unless my one-woman show was canceled. Maybe Europeans weren’t ready for the razor sharp wit of Melanie Zeitgar. Maybe—“Well I have a job for you,” my mother says. Oh no. “I don’t need—”
“We need you to babysit the boys this weekend. Richard and I are going to a retreat in the Catskills,” she says.
I groan. “This is not a good week—”
“Melanie, I need you this weekend. You promised you’d babysit the boys for us. You need to get out of that city anyway. It will be a nice little break for you. You can take some time and think about your future. Maybe you’d like to see Dr. Phillips while you’re here?”
I bang the phone on the end table five times. “Sorry, Mom,” I say, “there’s something wrong with this phone.”
Dr. Phillips was my counselor during my stay at the psychiatric hospital in an undisclosed Connecticut location. This was years ago, mind you—but I was never going to live it down.
“I ran into him the other day,” my mother lies. “He said he’d like to see you again—just to catch up—see how you’re doing.”
“I don’t need to see Dr. Phillips, Mother,” I say through clenched teeth. “I have unemployment problems—not psychiatric problems.” Her silence conveys her disagreement. I could tell her I have a date with Greg Parks on Friday night and she would fall all over herself to find someone else to watch the boys. Worse yet, she may even invite him to spend the weekend with me. I would never be able to have last-person sex with Greg with my mother involved. “I’ll be there Friday,” I say in the end. It was the only way to end the conversation.
The boys were born with silver bones in their mouths. They were only to drink bottled Evian water. They were fed at seven, noon, and six; brushed at one and three; and bathed before bed. Playtime was at nine, three, and five. I was to take them for three walks and one wagon ride. I study the list while my mother runs around throwing things into her suitcase at high speed. Richard is waiting out in the car with the engine running. Mom quickly kisses me on each cheek. “Phone numbers are on the fridge. We’ll see you by Tuesday at the latest,” she says, scurrying across the kitchen floor toward the door to the garage. It takes me forever to react.
“Tuesday?” I say before she makes her escape. “I thought it was just until Sunday.” From the look on her face, she had anticipated my reaction and has practiced her reaction in the mirror. It was definitely a fake surprised look, eyebrows tilted slightly up, mouth open at the perfect angle. Her expression is a perfect mix of silly-me-I-forgot-to-tell-you and how-can-you-be-so-selfish?
“Is there a problem?” she says with a forced smile as if I were an impolite houseguest. “Do you have plans? A job interview perhaps?” I open my mouth to tell her I needed to work on my clocks, but of course there were no clocks and didn’t need to make things worse by bringing up the fake ones.
“No problem,” I say. “I’m just worried about the boys. Have they ever been apart from you for that long?”
Her face softens and she wiggles her fingers at me. “Just follow the list. I’m sure they’ll be in good hands,” she says unconvinced. And with that, I’m left alone with the boys.
The dogs are running in mad circles around my ankles. Five of them. Jesus. Why didn’t they just make it six and have a canine Brady Bunch? Yip, yip, yip. They are chasing each other through my pant legs—as one goes under, another goes around—and I receive several nips from the excited bystanders. Should I take them out into the yard? It wasn’t fenced, but surely they wouldn’t run away. Or would they? I realize I don’t know anything about these buggers or how to care for them. Did I need to take them on a leash? I couldn’t believe my mother hadn’t left me better instructions.
“Who wants to go outside?” I say in my best baby voice. I figured I’d venture out a few steps onto the lawn and see how close they stuck to me before searching for their leashes. They all had color-coded collars, and I reviewed all five names. Julius, red. Hamlet, blue. Richard, yellow. Malvolio, green. Skylark, orange. I didn’t know which was which. “Hamlet!” I yell as a test. All five dogs bounce toward me, yip, yip, yip.
I sit on the front porch and watch them play. They sniff hedges, pee on flower beds, and dig like mad fiends in the dirt. Mom was right about one thing. It felt good to be in the suburbs, breathing fresh air. I indulge myself in a fantasy about Greg. I wonder what our life would be like if he and I married, moved to the suburbs, and had kids. Maybe even that dog he’s always wanted. I can’t believe it, we haven’t even been on our first official date and I’m planning our wedding. But I can’t help it. My stomach is tingling at the thought of our unborn children. God they would be beautiful. I close my eyes as the boys tumble all over the yard.
Maybe I could convince Greg to come out and spend Sunday night here. I like the thought of the two of us playing house, parenting the dogs. It would be good practice for us! I would be playful and spoil them; he would be gentle, yet firm. We would make up games and run around the yard until we exhausted ourselves. That night we’d curl up in front of a fire with the dogs and smile at each other with satisfaction. “You’re going to make an incredible mother,” Greg would say. We’d kiss. “And you’re going to make an amazing father,” I’d say. “What are we waiting for?” the Greg of my imagination says. “Let’s practice.” I giggle, eyes still closed, sunshine kissing my cheeks.
Greg, Greg, Greg. Greg with whom I have a date at seven o’clock tonight. Which means I’ll have to be on the five o’clock train. I have it all figured out. I would simply sneak the boys onto the train (they’re small) and take them back to the city. We’d spend the weekend at my place. Kim was off on some modeling gig (bitch) so they’d have the run of the house. I hug my knees and take a deep breath. I have a mess of butterflies in my stomach at the thought of seeing Greg again. I stretch and open my eyes. The boys are gone.
“Hamlet? Julius? Richard the Third?” I run around the yard peering in bushes. “Skylark? Come on, boys, come on.” I can’t believe I’ve only been here a few hours and I’ve lost them. I’m going to have to canvas the neighborhood with fliers and post their pictures on milk cartons. I pray to the Saint of Lost Dogs for help. Please, please just let me find them. I’ll love them like they’re my own. Just as I’m about to really freak out, I see a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. It’s coming from the driveway. The boys are lined up in front of the garage like little toy soldiers. Mom and Richard left the Honda for me. The boys want to go for a ride. I run up and hug them one by one. Thank you, thank you, thank you. “Want to go for a ride, boys?” Yip, yip, yip. I didn’t screw anything up. “Let’s go. Let’s go get a treat.”
The women at Petco go crazy gushing over the boys. They take turns picking them up, kissing them, and then passing them down the line. It’s fun to be so popular, and I’m actually having fun shopping for them. I didn’t plan on stealing anything, honest. But I’ve dressed the boys in little matching outfits that Corinne made them, and can I help it that their little pockets are perfect hiding places for biscuits, rawhide bones, and plastic Shrek chew toys? Three of the dogs are in the cart, two of them in my arms. I place goodies in their pockets without even thinking about it. I’m working fast and furious, my stress building as their little outfits start to bulge.
That’s enough, Melanie, I tell myself. I need a large carrying crate to take them back to the ci
ty in. It won’t fit in their pockets so that I will have to buy. And since I’ll be paying for something, it’s more like getting a discount than stealing. Besides, the biscuits are complimentary, aren’t they? I lift the large crate into the grocery cart. I push it up near the register and gather the boys in my arms. I’ll take them to the car first and come back in to pay for the crate. They wiggle in my arms as I walk out the door.
“Excuse me. Miss. Stop right there.” Suddenly the manager of Petco is standing in front of me, blocking me from the car. The boys start to squirm, and Hamlet jumps out of my arms. The manager picks him up. I’m about to thank him when he starts unzipping Hamlet’s pocket. He holds up a rawhide bone and shakes it at me like he’s ringing a bell. “I think you’d better come with me,” he says.
Chapter 29
The cramped little office smells like Lysol and dog biscuits. The manager and his assistant are going through each of the boy’s pocket and laying the items on the desk. I watch in horror from my metal chair. “Listen,” I say. “It’s not what it looks like.” The assistant manger shakes his head and points to a closed-circuit television on the wall. “We saw everything,” he says. “Save your excuses for the police.”
“No,” I say. “I left my cart by the register. I was going out to the car to get my purse.” I point helplessly toward the parking lot. “I was just going out to pay. I swear.”
“You concealed items on the dogs and walked out of the store without paying,” the manager says. “That’s stealing.”
“I couldn’t leave the boys alone. I told you. I had to get my purse out of the car.” The assistant manager doesn’t look up from his notepad where he’s writing the items down one by one. “My cart is out there by the register,” I plead. “There’s a blue carrying crate in it.” The manager bites his lip. “I’m just watching them for my mother. She shops here all the time. I swear to you, sir—I was just going out to the car to get my purse.” The assistant manager stops counting and looks at me. “How much?” the manager asks. “Twenty-two and some change” he says. The manager folds his arms. “Let’s say you’re telling the truth about your purse,” he says. “Why were you hiding items in their coats?”
