Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  Victor laughs. But he looks hurt.

  “You really felt that way. You weren’t joking the last time you said it.”

  She looks down. She didn’t mean to hurt him, now, or the other day, in the restaurant. But where will they get if she sugarcoats all her bitterness?

  “A little. Towards the end I felt like I was there just to cook, and clean, and look after the children.” She wants to add sex, but she wouldn’t say that in front of Alex and Lili. “We talk about this before, Victor. And I don’t mean to keep bringing it up. Is all in the past.”

  His dark eyes still look sad.

  “I know. I just hate it that you felt that way.”

  He means it, by now she knows that, and she feels for him. She wants to reach out to him, to comfort him. But she’s too shy, and too unsure.

  “Is late, Victor. Why you don’t take the kids to church?”

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Me?”

  She leans back on the couch. She hasn’t been to church with them for more than ten years now.

  “Yes, you. The lovely girl I married to keep in a golden cage. Come with us.”

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  “I don’t know, Victor. Those people hate me.”

  “You mean you hate them.”

  “Well, whatever. I… I’m not going to change who I am.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to change, woman. I’m just asking you to come to Easter mass with your children.”

  She’d never admit it, but she’s tempted. She’d hate to go, of course. But it would be worth it, just to see everybody’s faces. Just to feel their eyes watching her, wondering why she’s there, standing next to her husband. She’d lean a little closer to him, just to give them something to talk about. But no, it would be silly. She’s not going to freeze her ass off standing in front of some church in Queens just so a bunch of insufferable old farts can gossip about her.

  “And who be watching lamb, then?”

  Victor laughs.

  “The lamb is dead. It isn’t gonna run away!”

  “But if it burn?”

  “Well, actually, the lamb is already cooked.”

  “Oh, no, Victor, you shouldn’t cook it ahead of time! It be cold and dry when you get back!”

  She knew she shouldn’t have let him prepare Easter dinner, as sweet as it was of him to offer. She enjoyed the luxury of not having to do anything. But why on earth did she trust him with the most important dish?

  He smiles, confident and content. He probably thinks his dried out lamb will be delicious.

  “Come here. Lemme show you something.”

  He takes her hand, pulls her towards the kitchen. A heavy-duty pot is resting on the stove. It’s one of those expensive French ones she’s always wanted. Victor lifts the lid and she takes in the savory scent of lamb and spinach. Unable to resist, she decides to break her fast early. With two fingers she grabs a piece of lamb. It tastes divine. Juicy and flavorful, with just the slightest hint of mutton. She reaches for a spoon to take another bite. The spinach, crisp and tart, lingers on her taste buds. The mustard greens add just the right amount of spice. It all blends perfectly with plum tomatoes and a dash of curry. It’s the kind of daringly different Easter meal she would have loved to cook herself, if only she thought that her children would accept it.

  “You make this or you buy?”

  If there’s a restaurant that sells this, she needs to know where it is.

  He laughs.

  She takes another spoonful.

  “Seriously, you make?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is amazing! How you learn to cook like this?”

  She replaces the lid. But even after covering up the pot she still stands there, spoon in hand, tempted by the idea of yet another bite. She feels ravenous and weak. Her period, the wine, the nerves, it’s all wearing her down, making her hungry. Victor hands her a plate and helps her to a steaming pile of stew. She eats it standing. It’s the best meal she’s ever had.

  She notices him watching her, looking her up and down as if assessing her figure in the new jeans.

  “So, you finally decided to take advantage of some of our new found wealth,” he says.

  “Your wealth, not mine,” she corrects, placing the empty plate in the sink, and running water over it. “And just so we’re clear. You’re not supporting me. I’m paying my mortgage and everything I need. You’re just buying me expensive gifts every now and then.”

  He leans closer, his dark eyes intense upon hers.

  “I don’t want to put you in a golden cage.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  He’s still looking at her, his body dangerously close. He reaches for her, but she shakes her head.

  “I thought you said no strings attached. No… expectations.”

  He holds up his hands.

  “None whatsoever.”

  He takes a step back. They are now at a safe distance.

  “So what did you buy yourself nice?”

  She smiles.

  “Let’s see. So far, you buy me this hair do, jeans, and perfume you liked.”

  He nods.

  “Apparently I have quite good taste.”

  “Flawless,” she says. “And a good heart too. You make generous donation to women’s shelter, fund for starving children in Africa, humane society, and hummingbird society.”

  “Is that so?” He laughs. “Hummingbird society?”

  “Yes. Helps environment. Good karma.”

  “Well, thanks for watching out for my immortal soul. I guess that’s what a good wife does.”

  It feels good to be relaxed enough to joke around. Maybe in time, it’ll be enough. Maybe in time she’ll stop feeling sorry that that’s all there’s left.

  “But…” she adds, “You do pay off full balance, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, we won’t go into debt because of the hummingbird society.”

  “So…” she looks down, suddenly, not knowing how to phrase this. “So you can pay full balance, how much can I spend?”

  She feels like a child asking for an allowance. She has to remind herself that she’s an independent woman, making ends meet by herself, and that she only accepted his money because he insisted, that she only allowed herself to take him up on his offer because after all, life is short and it’d be stupid to deny herself pleasure out of pride. But will he think of her as greedy?

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just spend what you like. When you feel more comfortable with the whole money issue, I’ll take you to the bank and we’ll go over the accounts together. But for now, if you’d just use that card of yours and spend on whatever you please, I’ll be a happy man.”

  “How you have so much money, Victor?”

  She can’t help herself. She’s always wondered. Yes, the store seems to be doing well, but how well can a business like that do, with the rents in Manhattan, and God knows what other expenses?

  He laughs.

  “It’s not that much money, hon. But it’s enough for us to be comfortable. When you feel up to coming to the bank with me, I’ll show you. There’s the store, there’s investments, there’s some savings. You’ll see.”

  “Ok,” she says. “But I still not come to church.”

  She starts walking back into the living room.

  “You should.”

  “I… I don’t know.” She feels herself hesitate. Yes, in a sick way, part of her would like it. Just to show people. Like a victory lap. But that is vain and silly. She hates those people and she shouldn’t care what they think. It’d be so much nicer to stay here, curl up on the couch, relax, drink wine, take a little nap maybe.

  Her children’s eyes are watching her. They both want her to come along, even Alex.

  “Come on, mom! What’s the big deal? It’s just Easter Mass! And we’ll probably be late anyway!”

  She’s flattered. She can’t believe her son, of all
people, wants her to go. Maybe he still feels guilty for his snarky comment earlier, and now he’s forcing himself to be nice.

  “I need use restroom,” she says.

  The bathroom is small. She finds that she enjoys the comfort of this sheltered little room. She takes pleasure in its neatness, tries to find calm and comfort in its symmetry. She surveys the dark tiles, the beige shower curtain, the stack of black, white and beige towels, everything clean and ordered, the way things tend to be in Victor’s world. She enjoys washing her hands with the big white bar of soap. It smells fresh yet neutral. Pleasant enough, but not something a woman would pick. She can’t imagine ‘Momo’ choosing that. Or rather, she doesn’t want to imagine it, doesn’t want to think of Monica in this bathroom, doesn’t want to picture her slender body wrapped in one of these towels, standing in front of this very sink, examining her perfect complexion in this very mirror. But she does picture it. In detail. She can see every perfect inch of the other woman’s body, can feel the luxuriousness of her smoothing lotion on her shins, her breasts, her shoulders, can almost hear her brushing her teeth and her shiny black hair, smiling at her own beauty in the mirror, getting ready to join Victor in bed. She swallows her pain, forces her mind to silence and refocus. Then she just can’t resist. Here it is, right in front of her, a shrine of secrets, the cabinet behind the mirror. She hesitates before opening it, but once her hand slides the glass cover aside, what’s done is done, it is what it is, and she knows she’ll be ransacking everything like a thief. It must be in here, the other woman’s stuff. Her make-up remover and her cotton disks. Her night cream. Her eye serum. Her toothbrush.

  She looks at the neatly ordered shelves, cataloguing the objects one by one, reassuring herself that they are all so masculine, all exclusively, unmistakably his. A fancy electric razor. Shaving cream. Aftershave. Men’s deodorant. Nicotine patches. So that’s what helped him quit.

  She reaches for his bottle of aftershave. She lets herself enjoy his scent. She feels naughty snooping around. His fragrance turns her on. It’s so silly! There’s obviously nothing in here, and she’s acting like a teenager with a crush. She hopes she can remove the scent of aftershave from her hands, or they’ll all know what she’s been up to. She places the bottle back on its shelf, pushing the other things around to make room for it. She can’t remember its exact position, and she’s not sure just how well soap can remove fragrance. But maybe there’s rubbing alcohol in here. She once read in a magazine that it can erase even the strongest perfume.

  She reaches for the plastic bottle, and her heart stops. Behind the rubbing alcohol, besides a box of aspirin, there are five orange tubes of prescription pills. She pulls them out one by one, her hand shaking. She doesn’t need to read the labels. She knows what these are. But she reads their names anyway, over and over. They advertise this stuff on TV. Blood pressure medicine. Bloody blood pressure medicine. He’s been taking that, for God knows how long, and she didn’t even know it!

  Her heart racing, she sits on the edge of the tub. How sick is Victor? How long has this been going on?

  She sometimes forgets that he’s a mere mortal, that he can get sick, just like the rest of us, that something bad can happen to him, that he will die one day. Terror courses through every inch of her body. What if it’s actually happening, what if it’s happening now?

  With trembling knees she walks back to the living room.

  “Victor, can I speak to you in bedroom please?”

  Her children are only too familiar with such scenes. Alex sighs. Lili looks down and bites her lips. She probably thinks they’re about to fight because of her cancelled wedding. Poor kids! They’ll both be sitting here, waiting for the yelling to start in the other room.

  But as Maria pulls Victor into the bedroom, fighting is the last thing on her mind.

  Still trembling, she asks.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  He gives her a puzzled look, and it takes her a moment to realize that she needs to be more specific.

  “Your heart?”

  Still, she can see, he doesn’t understand.

  “I found medicine, in bathroom.”

  She suddenly feels exhausted, and sits down on the bed. Victor sits next to her.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “My blood pressure is just a bit higher than it should be.”

  She sighs, a cold shiver running through her.

  “I don’t understand. You never even get angry.”

  “Apparently that’s not that good for the heart.”

  He laughs.

  “Oh, Victor, this is horrible! How long have you had this?”

  “Just a few months, and really, it’s not that bad. I just have to take the medicine, and I already quit smoking, I avoid salt…”

  She gives out a deep sigh. The thought of him being sick, any sickness, is just unbearable.

  “Come on, woman. Don’t be such a drama queen, like your son says. I’m not dead yet, there’s no need to mourn me! And apparently if I do die, I guess I’m all set, given my recent charitable contributions.”

  “Don’t joke about this! Don’t you dare joke about this!”

  “I’m touched that you care.”

  “Really, don’t joke!” By now she’s nearly crying. She looks around, hoping to find some kind of geometrical figure. Something neat and ordered to rest her eyes upon, something to count to distract herself from crying. In the simplicity of the room, she finally settles on the buttons on the front of the flat screen TV, but she’s unable to concentrate on them. She imagines Victor in his bed, watching this TV, and she wonders if he ever gets lonely. When the other woman isn’t here, when he’s alone, going to sleep in front of this big flat screen, is he content to be alone, or does he feel like he’s missing something?

  “Seriously. I am touched that you still care this much about me.”

  He takes her hand and brings it to his lips. She knows then, that she won’t be able to hold back her tears.

  “Come here.” He puts his arms around her. She rests her head on his shoulder. It feels good, his body against hers. She lets herself be hugged, lets herself cry.

  “It’s ok, honey. It’s all going to be ok.”

  She nods her head softly, but doesn’t stop crying. It’s such a relief, such a luxury, to just let herself go, to stop pretending that she’s so damn strong all the fucking time.

  “It’s gonna be ok.”

  She knows he isn’t talking just about his health, and she knows she’s not crying just over that either. She’s needed a good cry for ages. And she especially needed a good cry today. She loses track of how long she cries for, how long he holds her, but when she finally lifts her head, still sniffling, and gives him a weak smile, she feels profoundly satisfied.

  He looks at her, and wipes away her tears with the cotton sleeve of his shirt. She laughs. It’s such an uncharacteristic gesture for Victor, Victor who likes everything neat and clean. Now there are mascara stains on his crisp white shirt, and he doesn’t even seem to care.

  She sniffles a few times still, but feels herself relaxing, growing calmer. She even manages a proper smile.

  He’s looking into her eyes, intent on something.

  “Ok, now, what I really want to know is what exactly you were looking for in my medicine cabinet.” She feels blood rushing to her cheeks. “Would you also like to look in the closet? Or have you done that already?”

  She laughs at her own silliness exposed. She can’t well say she needed a tampon, now can she?

  “Seriously, Maria. If you want to know something, you can just ask me.”

  “Are you still seeing her?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Since?”

  “Since before Christmas, when we broke up.”

  “Is there anything else?” he asks. She shrugs. “Like maybe, you might want to know if there are others?”

  She frowns, chasing away the image.

  “I guess that’s not a pleas
ant prospect to you,” he says. “Then maybe you should say so. If you don’t want me going out with other women, well… then you should say it. In fact, I’d like to hear you say it.”

  She bites her lips. Whatever happened to them just being friends?

  “I don’t want you to see other women, Victor.”

  “I won’t. And I’d like you to not see other men.”

  She smiles. She decides then and there that she’ll never tell him he’s been the only man in her life.

  “I guess I could give up other men,” she says, smiling as if she’s promising to turn her back on a long list of lovers.

  He seems to want to say something, but he hesitates.

  “Could you trust me?” He finally asks. It’s a heavy question, one she didn’t anticipate, and is not prepared to answer.

  “I’ll try,” she says. She wishes she could sound more confident, but she doesn’t want to lie. “But… It might take me a while to really be with you again, I mean, really be with you.”

  She searches his eyes. Will he be willing to wait? There are so many attractive women out there, in this city, who wouldn’t hesitate a second before going to bed with him, and here she is, his own silly wife, having so many issues, so many fears and apprehensions.

  “That’s ok, honey,” he says. “I understand that.”

  They are both quiet for a while.

  “I’m sorry I cheated on you. And I’m sorry I acted like I was entitled to it, like you were to blame.”

  She swallows hard. As angry and hurt as she’s been, has she herself not always felt that his straying was her own fault? That it was the natural consequence of her kicking him out of their bed? That it was well deserved punishment for her own betrayal?

  “Wasn’t I?” She feels tears burning in her eyes again, rolling down her cheeks. “Was it not my own fault for…” She sobs, and her words are stifled, the question suspended in the air.

  He reaches for her hand.

  “You have to stop thinking that everything bad is your fault, that you deserved it somehow. You are wonderful, Maria. You are strong, and smart, and incredibly beautiful. You can be impossible, but you are truly wonderful, and I love you. I should have told you that every day, especially when you were most inclined to doubt it. When we came here and you couldn’t fit in, and you felt guilty about not having a job, and about hating our new life, I should have told you every day that I was happy you were with me, that I was lucky to have you, lucky you came with me, that you stood by me.”