by Jill Ciment
“You just say it,” says the nurse.
“Hello, I’m calling from the veterinarian hospital. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Lupita is gone … We’re not sure why, but most likely, the infection entered her bloodstream and her heart just stopped … Yes, the tension outside might have contributed as well.”
“I told you the hysteria killed her,” the orderly whispers to the nurse.
“Yes,” says the medical student, his eyes distracted and moist, “you could call Lupita the real victim here today.” He cradles the phone. “The owner’s devastated. She and her son are going to drive in from Yonkers tomorrow to collect the body so she can bury it in her backyard.”
“I’ll clean her up and call the morgue,” the nurse says, patting the student’s shoulder. With practiced efficiency, she rolls the body on its side. Its stone eyes now stare directly at Dorothy, but the nurse mercifully closes them. Pulling a tissue out of her white pocket, she wipes the foam off the pink lips, already beginning to grin in rigor-mortis. She detaches the IV tube and throws away the half-empty cloud. She opens a drawer and takes out a square, clean incontinence pad, the same Wee Wee brand that Dorothy uses as her emergency toilet at home. She covers the body with it, but Dorothy’s not fooled. Dorothy knows what’s under the Wee Wee pad.
Sunday Evening
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
“WITNESSES SWEAR THEY SAW A BOMB UNDER Pamir’s coat,” says the evening newscaster, a prematurely white-haired man with a ferret-like face. “Dozens of people described the exact same explosive device down to the number of dynamite sticks and the detonator button’s color. Now the mayor tells us Pamir never had a bomb. Was it a mass hallucination? What did these witnesses really see?” he asks his guest, an intense, thin woman with flyaway hair captioned, “Author of Mass Hysteria.”
“It’s called eyewitness disorder.”
“Next they’ll concoct a pill for it,” Alex says.
He and Ruth are seated on their sofa, waiting for their Chinese food to arrive. Lily had woken them from their nap to tell them to stay by the phone this evening: she thinks she has another offer.
Ruth is only half listening. She’s mentally arranging the furniture in their future living room and then imagining her and Alex sitting just as they are now, but instead of facing the television, they’re looking at the bookcases. She can almost see the spines of her library arranged alphabetically, floor to ceiling. Finding a home for her books is no less important to Ruth than finding a museum for his paintings is to Alex.
“If eyewitness disorder is all they could come up with for a lead story,” Alex says, “it must mean things are returning to normal. Maybe we’ll get our asking price.”
“I’ll be glad if we can just get nine fifty.”
She tries to get back to her daydream—or whatever it was—but after Alex distracted her, her daydream changed: she and Alex are still facing the bookcases, but now they’re a very elderly couple sitting on their ancient plaid sofa in an unfamiliar living room. This will be where, most likely, one of them will sit alone after the other’s gone, because in the end, Ruth knows, an elevator isn’t a fountain of youth.
“Stay tuned,” says the newscaster, “next up, the results of tonight’s poll Did the Media Go too Far? and an exclusive interview with Pamir’s girlfriend from rehab, Debbie Twitchell.”
“Rahim’s wife was right all along,” Alex says. “The born-again wasn’t his hostage, she was his lover.”
The buzzer sounds.
“The Chinese is here.”
Alex rises to get his wallet from the bedroom, while Ruth attends to the intercom. She presses talk, “Hello.” She presses listen, but all she hears is a blasting boom box on the street: the suburban teenagers must be back. “We’re on the fifth floor,” she shouts to the deliveryman, and presses door. Before she answers the knock, she peers through the peephole. At first, she doesn’t recognize the two women—one tall and one short—but she immediately recognizes Harold. He now sports a crimson vest, the brightest spot in the fish-eyed hallway.
Opening the door, Ruth expects Harold to bound past her and lunge at Dorothy’s toys as he had yesterday, but Harold’s like a different dog—composed, pensive, a serious young gentleman in a fitted red vest that reads, Seeing Eye Puppy in Training.
“We hope you don’t mind our dropping by like this. We were out training Harold in the park,” says the short, dreamy one.
“We’re here to make an offer,” says the tall, aloof one.
Alex comes out of their bedroom, wallet in hand. “Come in,” he says.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Ruth asks. “Perhaps a bowl of water for Harold?”
“We don’t want to intrude,” says the short one, though Ruth can see how badly she wants to come in.
“Our bid,” says the tall one, holding out an envelope. “We ask you once again to make this a sealed auction.”
“My wife and I discussed this. No silent auction.”
“It’s as high as we can go,” says the short one, looking at Ruth beseechingly.
Alex takes the envelope.
“Is it okay to pet him?” Ruth asks.
“Not while he’s wearing his vest,” says the tall one.
“He’s still learning the difference between play and work,” explains the short one.
“He’s so well-behaved. Our little dog is out of control.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow. You’ve done a remarkable job training Harold. Maybe you can teach me a few tricks to get Dorothy to behave.” As soon as she says it, Ruth regrets it. Those dreamy, pleading eyes have misinterpreted her: she thinks Ruth has made a promise of some kind, when Ruth was only making small talk.
“We can come by one evening this week. Harold’s a very special boy.” At the sound of his name, Harold looks up at his mistress with fidelity and awe.
“It’s our final offer,” interrupts the tall one, giving a quick, sharp tug on Harold’s lead. Obediently, he rises to his feet.
“Good night,” says the short one, slipping Ruth a second envelope. “Here’s our letter in case there’s a tie. I hope you’ll read it.”
“Good luck,” Ruth calls after them as they head down the stairwell, though she knows luck will have nothing to do with it.
Before they open the envelope to see what the offer is, Alex calls Lily to check if breaking the seal commits them in any way to a silent auction.
The buzzer sounds. They forgot all about the Chinese food. “I’ll get it,” Ruth says, leaving Alex alone in the living room.
“We’re on the fifth floor,” she shouts into the intercom, and then waits for the deliveryman at the stairwell’s summit. As he makes his slow ascent, Ruth tries to guess what the ladies’ offer might be. It has to be more substantial than their last bid of nine hundred thousand made at the height of the threat. Nine twenty-five? Nine fifty? Ruth can smell the garlic shrimp as the deliveryman trudges up the last flight. His ears are bright red from bicycling in the cold; his face is sweaty from the steam heat and the exertion. He has to be in his late fifties, bringing her and Alex their dinner in subzero weather, and she was worried that nine hundred thousand wasn’t enough? When his bloodless fingers count out her change, nine dollars, she says, “Keep it, please.”
“Nine hundred and fifty thousand,” Alex says as she walks in, a bag of Chinese food in each hand. She wishes she could put down her load and embrace him, but the garlic sauce is beginning to leak. “Is Lily calling Harold’s ladies to tell them the good news or should we?”
“She’s calling the Parkas and Yellow Rubbers to see if they’ll make a counteroffer.” The phone rings: Alex answers, listens, and says, “Tell them they can go to hell.”
Ruth hurries into the kitchen, abandons the dripping bags in the sink, and picks up the cordless.
“I was just telling Alex that the Parkas have tried to pull a fast one again,” Lily says. “They offer
ed nine hundred and fifty-one thousand.”
“They can keep their lousy thousand,” Ruth says.
“Dr. Gilbert will be e-mailing you her offer shortly,” Lily says.
“Who’s Dr. Gilbert?” Ruth asks.
“Yellow Rubbers. She wants to include a letter. After the Parkas’ antics, I reminded her that we’re only accepting bids in increments of five thousand dollars. Should I call Harold’s Ladies to see if they want to stay in the ring?”
Ruth is still worried that she’d inadvertently made some kind of promise to the beseeching eyes. “I suppose it can’t hurt, but the short one said it’s the best that they can do and I believe her.”
“Why don’t we give them until tomorrow morning to see if they can’t do a little better,” Lily says.
“Tell them they should go through you, Lily,” Alex adds. “I don’t want them coming by again.”
After they hang up, Ruth asks, “You think they really would have come by?”
“For our apartment, they were ready to teach Dorothy to behave.”
Ruth rescues what’s left of their shrimp and vegetables. The carton has almost bled out in the sink. When all eight shrimp are safely in a bowl, she sits at the kitchen table and takes out the second envelope. It’s been in her robe pocket since the short one had slipped it to her. Before Alex went off to wake the computer and check for Dr. Gilbert’s e-mail, he’d warned Ruth not to read it, but she feels obligated. At the very least, she’d promised the short one that she’d read their letter. She opens the envelope; it’s barely adhered, as if someone had only kissed the glue for luck before sealing it.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cohen,
First of all, we want to tell you how sorry we are to hear about your little dogs back troubles. We wish her our very best.
If you should choose us in the event of a tie, we will cherish your apartment. We love the original ironwork on the entry door and the windowed kitchen, but that’s not why you should choose us. My partner, Millicent, and I have raised five Seeing Eye dogs in training:
Harold is our sixth. One of the few places a Seeing Eye puppy in training is allowed off-leash is a dog park. Being only a block away from Tompkins Square’s beautiful one would mean the world to us. Harold will be leading a visually impaired person soon enough, it would be so wonderful if he could run free.
Warmly, Judy
She carries the letter into the bedroom intending to read it aloud to Alex, and then argue that they should accept the ladies’ offer and be happy with nine fifty All they wanted was an elevator, and now they have one.
He looks up from the computer screen. “Nine hundred and sixty thousand. Let’s grab it, Ruth.”
She slips the letter back into her pocket. “What about Harold’s Ladies?”
“You heard the tall one, nine fifty is their final offer.”
“We promised they had until morning. We have to give them a chance. What did the doctor’s letter say?”
“I didn’t read it,” Alex says, rising from his chair to find the source of the garlic scent.
Ruth sits down at the computer.
Dear Seller,
I’m forty-eight years old, single, with no pets. I like the East Village because it’s close to my work. I’m a chiropractor. I also do Indian head massage and reflexology. I’m quiet; I never have parties and will make a good neighbor.
Sincerely,
Dr. Katherine Gilbert
She wishes she hadn’t read either letter, the petless chiropractor’s or the one in her pocket, heavy as a stone. She reads the doctor’s e-mail again, hoping to see something she’d missed before, something poignant and unspoken beneath the lines—Grandpa’s ailing and the flour bins are empty—but all Ruth can glean from the sad letter is that Dr. Gilbert doesn’t own a cow.
Alex samples a shrimp as he sets the table—the good dishes and cloth napkins. He opens a new bottle of wine. He plans to toast their future happiness though he’s a little disappointed they didn’t get their asking price. He wanted to be a millionaire, if only for the minute or two it took him to write Lily’s commission check and then give the rest to the sellers. He looks around for a candle to make the celebration especially festive and romantic, but all he finds is a sickeningly perfumed aromatherapy candle Ruth’s sister sent her and a Yahrzeit candle he forgot to light for his dead father. He peels off the Hebrew sticker, sets the glass of wax on the table, like a candelabrum, and lights the virgin wick, but when the flame comes to life, the setting looks more mournful than romantic. He can’t help but remember his father, the immigrant shoe salesman who revered millionaires. Before calling Ruth for dinner, he goes into the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet, and takes a Viagra in case the celebration continues. When he returns to the kitchen, it’s as if his father is sitting there, joining them for dinner. He douses the overhead fluorescent to reset the mood with soft candlelight, but now the dark kitchen is peopled with more ghosts— his mother, his younger brother, his favorite aunt, an artist friend who hung himself, the German soldier he killed with his knife.
Ruth turns on the light. “Why is it so dark in here?” Then she sees the candle and the wine, and shuts it again.
Alex pours them both a glass as Ruth sits down. “To Dorothy,” he says.
They clink rims.
“To our beautiful new home,” Ruth says.
“And to Yellow Rubbers for making it possible,” Alex adds. He waits for Ruth to toss back her wine as she does when she feels victorious, but she merely takes a sip, as if it were bitter medicine.
“You don’t feel bad about Millicent and Judy?”
“Who?”
“Harold’s Ladies. They really want our apartment. Did you know Harold is their sixth Seeing Eye puppy?”
“I told you not to read the letter, Ruth.”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
He reaches across the table and caresses her hand. He wants her tonight; he needs to hold something warm and alive that he loves to dispel the ghosts.
“The ladies might come up with another ten,” she says, oblivious to his touch. “Even if they can come up with five more, let’s consider it, Alex. We should do the right thing and give it to Harold’s Ladies.”
“You want us to give away ten thousand dollars?” he says, releasing her hand.
“I don’t know.”
“Why is giving away ten grand the right thing, Ruth?”
“From the moment Lily told us what our apartment was worth, we’ve thought of little else but money.”
“Is that such a crime? What about us? Ten thousand dollars will pay for our move: forty-five years of paintings, forty-five years of books. You want us to carry it all downstairs, one box at a time?”
“For a million dollars, we wished a suicide bomber on Baltimore.”
“We were scared like everyone else. Nobody wished a bomb on Baltimore.”
“I did,” she says.
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Ruth! We’re talking about ten thousand dollars!”
Alex finishes his dinner in silence, and then disappears into his studio, slamming the door. Ruth is tempted to follow him to try to win the argument—We got lucky today only because the city was terrified; Shouldn’t we share our good fortune? But had he said yes, would she really give up ten thousand dollars so that Harold could have a dog park?
She blows out the Yahrzeit candle and can’t help but remember her parents—the deeply religious egg-peddler who refused to make an extra nickel off the war’s black market and her pragmatic, embittered mother.
She goes into their bedroom and lies down, getting under the covers as if she’s coming down with a fever. It takes her a moment or two to realize what, exactly, she’s burning up with—shame. She’s no more willing to give up ten thousand dollars than anyone else. There you have it, she’s ashamed to be human.
Under a cone of incandescence, Alex’s hair is as white as a barrister’s wig. He sits at his worktable, arguing in his head with Ruth— Ten thousand
was your salary for years; Ten thousand dollars was more than I earned for four years of combat; We can’t move without help. He looks around his studio at what he’ll be moving—stacks of FBI memos, flat files heavy with prints, a palette table mountainous with dried paint, racks of paintings. Even if he hires men to bubble-wrap the paintings, no one can help him with the herculean task of deciding what to discard and what to keep, what was worth the effort and what wasn’t, who he was and who he isn’t.
He opens his paint jars with new urgency. Page fifty-one still needs illuminating. Employing the stencil he finished cutting two nights ago, he begins ornamenting the manuscript’s border, his brush wet with cadmium red. The FBI memo at the center of this collage is especially beautiful—the blacked-out shapes are like tire marks on snow. He reads between the marks. Cohen née Kushner, Ruth (b. 1930) Arrested November 15, 1954, disobeying court order: marching without a permit: Citizens Against the H-Bomb. January 26, 1955, at 1:55 p.m., informant observed subject, Ruth Cohen, speaking at a rally against the Korean War. Subject, Ruth Cohen, suspended for six months without pay for refusing to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee. She hasn’t changed. He visualizes a portrait of Ruth—on the kind side of middle-age, sporting her red cat-eye glasses and crowned by wild black defiant hair—in the only blank area left to do on page fifty-one, but before he can capture her in paint, the image dissolves into what it is—an old man’s memory. Yet it’s not nostalgia he feels; it’s arousal.
• • •
Alex’s body heat wakens Ruth. She must have dozed off reading. Her glasses are still on. Her Portable Chekhov presses on her chest, as heavy as a brick. Alex is naked and erect. Only as he envelops her, does she realize that he must have taken a Viagra with dinner (he needs to take it with food) and their fight ruined the evening. Either he’s forgiven her or, just as likely, he can’t bear to waste the pill, let alone such a triumphant erection. She pulls her nightgown free of her arms and head and flings it into the night.
