Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  After her fifteen years as a faithful tenant, Mr. Mahoney had rented her apartment that same afternoon. You’d have thought he’d give her forty-eight hours or so to think about it. During all those years of waving to her every morning through his ground-floor window where he’d sit reading the paper, she’d never neglected to wave back. The next day she’d mentioned her feelings to Roger. He’d looked at her with such a rush of tenderness and emotion that all was put to rest. “Last-minute wedding jitters,” he’d postulated.

  “So, uhh … what do you propose we do about the breathing?” she’d asked.

  Roger just stared at her, like the burden was hers. Then his eyebrows rose, and he flashed his goofy smile that always made her concede.

  “Okay, okay, how ’bout for tonight and tonight only,” she’d offered, her generosity betraying her like a friend spreading lies, “I go sleep on the downstairs couch?”

  Roger smiled in a way that gave her goose pimples. She’d felt frightened; she was his wife now. It must have been that change in Paula’s expression that caused Roger to tilt his head in his endearing “polar bear” way. Assured by the afterglow of the wedding, she pushed back the top sheet and swung her legs over to reach the floor.

  “Just until you get back on your sleep schedule, of course,” Paula mewed as softly as a lamb.

  “Of course.” Roger’s features had formed a new expression: relief, conquest.

  We never know precisely when a bargain is struck. Sometimes it just feels like being reasonable and bighearted. Many bargains are not retractable and must run their course. Sometimes they expire quickly; other times they are taken to the grave. Like the eighty-seven-year-old widow who openly weeps; everyone thinks, How moving, but she’s grieving for all the years she never did one single thing for herself.

  Paula had grabbed a pillow and a quilt from the foot of the bed. She felt like a kid swinging too high in the playground, not sure whether to grip tighter or let go.

  She’d looked at his face. A nose that had at first seemed too large now made perfect sense. His thinning hair was clipped too short for her taste, but his large hands could cradle her spine like she was the most delicate thing in the world. She could be reasonable, understanding. It was an adjustment. They were both older. And after several more days on the couch Paula crept upstairs at bedtime, but Roger refused her and she started to cry.

  “Of course I want to sleep with you, too, Paula—” He’d laughed nervously, touching her tears. “You know I want to. Just let me get on a better sleep schedule.” She’d counted that as his first lie.

  She settled in on one of his downstairs couches. The couch from her old apartment was still turned on end in the living room where the movers had left it (and where it would remain for a decade). Her books and belongings were heaped on top. She didn’t have much, balancing the number of possessions by what she thought of as her “Bedouin mentality”—if she couldn’t load it up on a horse did she really want it?

  After two months of begging, she’d stopped asking. It was humiliating. She’d vowed to wait until she was invited. “Don’t you miss me?” she’d kept asking in her Minnie Mouse voice, repulsed by her own groveling. Didn’t he crave her warmth, her smell? Wasn’t it natural to want those things? “I want to smell you,” she’d insisted. He’d laughed, turning it into a joke as he raised his arm and fanned himself toward her. She’d pull away, hurt by his mockery.

  A month before their one-year anniversary, as they were both reading in separate spaces cleared in the dining room, Roger said, “Hey—why not move into one of the upstairs bedrooms? You could fix it up, make it your own.”

  She peeked around a pile of newspapers at him.

  “Seriously. I could clear it out.” Roger sprang up from his chair, energized and ready to bolt into action. But Roger couldn’t fake anything; this had been his plan all along.

  “You could fix it up—get a bed for yourself.”

  And you could get fucked.

  She’d felt him turn in her direction, his lovely blue eyes searching her out.

  “You know, sleeping on that old couch,” he advised, “you’re gonna wreck your back.

  You wrecked my life; I’ll wreck my back.

  “I didn’t get married to sleep alone,” she’d said quietly. She didn’t look up from her book.

  “Oh?” He stood and turned toward her, surprised. “I thought you were okay with this.”

  Paula stopped breathing. Sleeping on the couch felt temporary. Having one’s own bedroom smacked of acceptance. And although every few months Paula would revisit “the issue,” the outcome was always the same: “I don’t have time for this now; let’s talk tomorrow.” It seemed her installation had been complete. Like some specialized part in one of Roger’s neutrino sensors deep in abandoned gold-mine shafts in the flats of North Dakota. This had been his plan. At first such possession had made her feel safe, to belong to someone. She’d relaxed into Roger’s solid frame in a way she’d not had with anyone. He’d had a certain heft to him; “good old peasant stock,” he’d refer to his burly frame, thumping his chest as it made empty sounds until she laughed.

  From that point on, her energy was funneled into developing the Center, and academia was only too happy to slurp up all that passion and drive. As the Center rose in prominence, her marriage withered—what Paula’s colleagues would have call an inverse relationship. But as focused as she was, the moment she entered Roger’s brownstone she became drowsy—as if she could sleep for a thousand years and still wake up exhausted.

  * * *

  Paula finally fell deeply asleep next to Fotis. The filmy hotel curtain blew with breezes from the window. It was one of the most peaceful sleeps she’d had in years, waking only once to the tickling of feathers on her cheek. She brushed it off and looked up. The room was still, silent. Fotis looked up at her, his entire body illuminated by the moonlight. Something was different.

  CHAPTER 4

  By eight the next morning she’d spoken to Christoff. While he’d been correct about her level of stress, he hadn’t counted on her request for an emergency leave of absence.

  “S-s-six weeks?” he stammered.

  “Uhh—might be more like eight, Peter.”

  “For that you’d need to apply,” Christoff said with administrative disdain.

  “For an emergency?”

  She hadn’t taken as much as a sick day in years. He reluctantly gave his approval; Christoff didn’t ask about the nature of the emergency.

  * * *

  She’d phoned Guillermo early that morning, not expecting him to answer. Paula imagined he was well into a good sweat, running on the treadmill in the basement gym of his Brooklyn co-op.

  “Paula,” he said. “So early?”

  She mentioned a sudden, unexpected “family emergency.” She was ready with a lie in case he asked, which he didn’t; there was only the sound of his feet trudging on the rubber bed of the treadmill. Trying to divine the nature of his silence, she figured he was fist pumping a “yes” viva el Guillermo.

  “But Paula—” His Mommy, don’t go tone surprised her.

  She’d buried her fingers in Fotis’ thick fur.

  “Just some things I have to take care of.” Her voice was soothing, even maternal. “You’ll be fine while I’m gone—look how well you’ve already handled everything; hell, you’re practically acting director now, Guillermo.”

  She listened as the pace of his gait moderated, as if his feet were doing the thinking.

  “Think of it like this—I’ll be out of the way,” Paula said, waiting for him to offer up a joke to counter her self-deprecation. “Now you guys can finally get some work done.”

  “What about selecting presenters?” he asked.

  “That’s your call,” she instructed. Guillermo had disagreed with Paula’s direction and emphasis of the Center. While she’d kept it global, he’d wanted to narrow it on Latin America. “Choose from the paper submissions.”

  “But�
��”

  “Look, Guillermo.” Her voice softened, as if encouraging the child she’d never have. “You’ve got a Ph.D., right? You’re a smart guy. Why do you think I hired you?”

  “How long will you be away?’ He sounded nervous.

  “Six weeks, maybe eight.”

  He was silent.

  “I’ll let you know if it’s longer.”

  She’d wanted to end with something clever but couldn’t think of it.

  She’d never walked away from anything. Typically she was the one up all night drafting to-do lists—cross-referencing them with other to-do lists—plagued by details lest the Center appear less than world-class. Her baby was now left in foster care.

  She thought about her parents. What would Vassili have said? Or, God forbid, Eleni? She’d have to tell her mother something. Eleni, who still reported at 8:00 am sharp to the furrier, sometimes working past 9:00 pm to fill orders for fall collections in Milan. Only hospitalization for gallbladder surgery ten years ago had prevented her from completing a coat.

  * * *

  Paula left a message on Roger’s voice mail to call when he landed the next day. Clapping her hands on her thighs, she sat up. Fotis looked up the instant he’d felt her eyes. “Well, thank God that’s over with.” The early sunlight filtered through the sheer ivory-colored drapes. “Ready to go buy a car?”

  Fotis slowly wagged his tail. His ears lay back as he looked toward the door and then back at her, clearly with the sense something fun was about to happen.

  The nearest dealership was uptown in the west fifties on Eleventh Avenue. It was about a three-mile walk, two hours at city pace, considering traffic lights and construction detours. Since it was a cool, dry morning she figured a brisk walk might help to clear her head.

  First they visited the dog run. This time Paula used the City scooper as she briefly chatted with other dog owners about brands of food. None of the other dogs picked on or bullied Fotis. Perhaps it was the size advantage.

  After the park, she and Fotis headed west on Canal Street, walking vigorously. As her heart began pumping it felt like the toxic fumes of the last few months were beginning to burn off.

  Wholesale storefront windows overflowed with merchandise. Some had freestanding dismembered mannequin parts—legs sporting hose and stockings in every shade, color and texture, arms with cotton patterned gloves of different lengths, some wrist length, others theatrically past the elbow. She’d thought of the white cotton gloves Eleni had made her wear to church. Who wore gloves anymore?

  Merchants across Canal Street sat in lawn chairs smoking. Small dogs had been tied to the merchants’ chairs. There was a grandmotherly Chinese woman smoking a cigar with legs crossed like a man. Several shops were still gated shut—either too early to open or deserted—their jail-like bars were padlocked. The locks looked rusted shut. Chunks of curb were missing like a giant had bent over and taken a huge bite. Jackhammering echoed from building edifices, bouncing off every direction as they broke past striations of asphalt to brick and to cobblestone dating back to the horse and carriage. Discs of chewing gum covered the sidewalk, flattened as if by a steamroller. The coolness of the previous evening had caused the gum to set, but in the warmth of the sun they’d soon be gooey, tacking onto people’s soles.

  Paula and Fotis walked beneath block-long caverns of tangled metal scaffolding, over sidewalks of makeshift plywood through Tribeca, on up toward Ninth Avenue and the car dealership. They cut west over to Eleventh Avenue. It was another two miles north to the dealership and she figured they’d make it there by lunchtime. Her breakfast had been sketchy; she was hungry though it was not yet eleven.

  Aromas of cooking meat and curry stew from clusters of street food vendors lured her across the street. A slice of pizza and three frankfurters later, she looked for a place to sit.

  A vacant bench felt good; she wasn’t used to walking so fast in one stretch. Fotis stood drooling. “You have to learn to eat your dog food,” she said halfheartedly as he eyed the pizza, a spindle of drool streaming from his lips. Paula folded the slice of pizza and took a bite while she fed Fotis a frankfurter.

  He gobbled it down so fast he almost nipped her fingers. “Jesus.” She yanked back her hand. “Ciga, ciga,” she told him. “Easy.” She readied the second frankfurter, holding it like a torpedo. He took it more gently, having realized his overzealousness.

  “Much better,” she said as he swallowed the third dog.

  They walked briskly past a block of shady currency exchange storefronts. Hindi and Asian alphabets covered up what had once been storefront windows. These places didn’t seem open for business except she spotted a man scurrying across the street toward a windowless door that opened just enough for him to pass through.

  The last mile led them to a walkway overlooking the Hudson River. Runners, people pushing strollers, pedestrians with no apparent goal other than enjoying the sights.

  She noticed that Fotis garnered a lot of attention. Perhaps it was his size. Some would take one look, scowl and then turn a shoulder against him as they crossed mid-block. Others would slow and gravitate toward Fotis, saying, “Can I pet your dog?” and often asking what kind of dog he was. A few young men softened the instant they spotted him. It pleased and surprised her. “Cool dog.” A man with forearms tattooed with sleeves of flames and skulls, metal dangling from every loose flap of skin, was on the verge of tears. A severe-looking older man wearing an expensive suit leaned over to pet Fotis. The man started to cough as if breaking into a fit. He explained how Fotis reminded him of Susie, his childhood dog. As a boy he’d slid his bath towel under Susie’s hips to help her down the back stairs out into the yard. She’d had crippling arthritis. Paula felt moved as he recounted how the dog had suffered indignity and sadness as she was robbed of the smallest comforts. “I can’t bear to watch anything suffer like that again,” he’d said. Paula had touched the man’s shoulder.

  Fotis had granted entry into a world that until twenty-four hours ago had been hidden. Had she not taken Heavenly’s phone call or if Theo had died a month earlier when she’d been in Greece with Eleni, Paula would still be holed up in her office, sleeping on the couch in Roger’s brownstone. Yesterday seemed like ten years ago. She looked in the direction of the dealership. There was a car to buy, a call to make to Bernie Kalgan and the start of a drive out west. Each free day would be a precious jewel.

  The dealership was located in a glass multistory building. Paula pushed open the front door to the smell of rubber tires, car wax and vinyl.

  “Okay if I come in with my dog?” she called.

  A large man nodded, swallowing his lunch as he approached, waving her inside. “Of course, no problem,” he answered with a slight accent she pegged as Serbian. “I am Aleksey, but call me Alex,” he said, wiping his hands on a white paper napkin before extending to shake.

  “I’m Paula.” She extended her hand and pointed to an orange stain next to his shirt pocket.

  Alex looked down and wiped it, nodding.

  Fotis pranced in circles, his nose in the air.

  “Nice to meet you, Paula.” Alex shook her hand and then squatted in front of Fotis. Alex extended his hand, a move that Paula now recognized as one of experienced dog owners.

  “My, you are big guy,” Alex remarked. “With big teeth, too,” he added, and laughed.

  “And who is this fine creature?” Alex asked.

  “Fotis.”

  “Hello, Fotis,” Alex said as Fotis nosed his fingers.

  Alex just happened to have a doggie treat in his shirt pocket. He flipped it up like he was doing a magic trick.

  “Can you sit?” Alex asked, and stood.

  Fotis watched with rapt attention.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” she said.

  “My wife, Marina, says same thing about me.”

  Paula laughed.

  He handed over the treat. One crunch and it was gone. Fotis looked for another. Alex raised his hands and shru
gged. “Sorry.”

  Paula grinned. She knew it was all theatre but was smitten anyway.

  “He always seems hungry,” Paula said.

  “Dog always hungry,” Alex said. “Even Pomeranian always hungry.”

  The man’s paunch strained the buttons of his shirt and his black tie gave the illusion of being too short for his body. His face was generous, with a soft smile. She liked him.

  “How can I help you, Paula?”

  “I need to buy a car,” she said, and drifted toward a small SUV. She touched the curve of its smooth, shiny fender. “Today,” she added.

  “Today, eh,” Alex said in a joking voice. “What’s so special about today?”

  She smiled mysteriously and blushed, enjoying the teasing. “I need a car that’s good for my dog.”

  “We have many good models for dog.” Alex gestured throughout a showroom that filled the entire city block. Cars were peppered between glass desks and poster-plastered kiosks covered with action shots of SUVs.

  “What about this one?” She smoothed the surface of the door with her hand; it reminded her of a Japanese lacquererware box. On the rear, the chrome logo said: “Ford Escape.”

  “This is next-year model—very popular.” Alex nodded as he said it. “Great gas mileage—it’s hybrid.”

  She nodded. “I’m going on a long drive.”

  “Then Escape would be perfect.” Alex stepped toward the driver’s side, opening the door and gesturing for her to sit. “Please.”

  Paula climbed in and sat. Fotis looked up at her as she leaned back. It was as comfortable as a living room chair.

  “Lumbar support, heated seats, the works.” Alex walked around to the passenger side and opened the back door. He folded down the backseats, creating a platform.

  She watched over her shoulder.

  “Backseat folds flat.” He patted the the space with his meaty hand and looked at her. The flesh of his ring finger rolled over his gold wedding ring.