by Brad Graber
Harry wondered what Beetle might do if he ever got hold of those slippers.
“I just woke up,” Harry said in his own defense. “I’m not much for talk in the morning.”
Lil laughed. “Oh, Harry Aldon. You’re such a dud.”
“Thank you, Lil,” Harry said as he pushed past. “So nice of you to say.”
Lil laughed again. “Honestly, some men,” she called out.
Harry looked back and waved, hoping to signal the end of the interaction.
“Do you have plans for lunch?” Lil called, hands on her hips, newspaper tucked under her arm.
“I’m working on my novel,” Harry said.
Unable to take a hint, she continued. “So, you’re not going to eat?”
Harry shook his head no.
“What’s a girl to do?” she asked, disappointment heavy in her voice.
Harry ignored her as Beetle humped his back, taking care of business. Harry bent down with a plastic bag as Beetle took two steps forward and kicked some loose dirt backward, catching Harry in the face. “Jesus,” Harry yelled, yanking on the leash. But Beetle offered one more kick before wandering over to sniff a nearby bush.
“That’s rich,” Lil laughed as she strolled over to Harry. “Someday that dog is going to kick something worse than dirt in your face, Harry Aldon. And you’ll deserve it.” She wagged her newspaper, like an index finger, at him. “Women don’t like men who play games.”
Harry blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lil.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” she insisted, turning sideways in a provocative pose.
Harry sighed. “Lil . . . it is six a.m. Give me a break.”
And then, as if on cue, Beetle whined. He was ready to continue the walk. It was time to move on.
◆
“Are you okay?” Rita asked, clutching the steering wheel of the car.
A large city bus had stopped just short of the passenger side. The bus driver glared down at them through the bus windshield. Rikki looked away, embarrassed by the man’s angry face.
“Yes,” Rikki answered, her mouth dry, her nerves shaken. She reached between her legs and retrieved the cigarette butt, now extinguished, and pitched it out the window. “I have a hole in my jeans,” she said, poking about with her finger. “I think I burned my leg.”
Car horns blew as Rita revved into action. She shifted into reverse and slowly backed up, maneuvering the car until it was in the correct lane and facing the right direction. More horns blared as she shifted into drive. “Keep your goddamn shirts on,” Rita shrieked, as if any of the other drivers could hear her. She accelerated, reaching twenty-five miles per hour before pulling her foot back off the pedal.
“You should pull over and let everyone pass,” Rikki suggested, turning around to see the line of cars behind them.
“If I do, you’ll never get to school,” Rita said, even though she did as Rikki suggested. As the cars whizzed by, Rita held up a middle finger to the driver side window and wildly shouted, “Here’s a present for you!”
Rikki blushed crimson. “If it hadn’t been for that cigarette . . .” She decided there wasn’t any point in saying any more. Her heart pounded as she relived the car’s spinning. She’d never liked amusement park rides. They made her nauseous.
“I know,” Rita quickly agreed.
“Then why?” Rikki blurted out, unable to contain herself. “Everyone knows cigarettes cause cancer. How can you still be smoking?” She’d asked the same question the night before when she caught Rita sitting on the terrace, a cigarette burning brightly.
Rita opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, but nothing came out. Arching her eyebrows, she seemed to struggle to find the right words. “It’s such a hard habit to break. I’ve been doing it for so many years.”
Rikki thought she made no sense. “So, when are you going to stop?”
“I can stop anytime I want,” Rita quickly answered, a lilt to her voice as the car once again entered the flow of traffic. “Stopping isn’t the issue . . . I’ve stopped a thousand times. It’s quitting that’s tough.”
Typical Rita, Rikki thought, irritated. Not taking any of this seriously.
“Trust me,” Rita went on. “If I could, I would. It’s so darn expensive. When I think of the money I’ve wasted on those cigarettes . . .” Rita shook her head. “It just makes my blood boil. But I’m addicted. Maybe we should look on the bright side. It could have been heroin.”
Rikki was shocked. “You’ve tried heroin?”
“I didn’t say I tried it,” Rita said indignantly. “But if I had, I’m sure it would have been worse than these damn cigarettes.”
Rikki couldn’t help laughing. It was the kind of absurd remark Rita was especially adept at. And despite all of Rita’s failings and Rikki’s struggles with her, there were moments of levity that they shared. Rita could be entertaining. That, and the fact that Rikki had nowhere else to go. Rita was home.
“I hope you won’t be too mad at your old grandma,” Rita offered, her tone sincere and contrite even as she referred to herself in a way that Rikki couldn’t.
“You only say ‘grandma’ when you’re trying to manipulate me,” Rikki pointed out.
Rita smiled. “See. You’re just like me. Sharp as a tack. No one can pull the wool over your eyes.”
Rikki doubted that was true. Her grandmother was just humoring her.
“I’m proud of you,” Rita said, turning to give Rikki a warm smile. “You’re an intelligent girl. You mark my words. Being smart will come in handy. Let the other girls be pretty and silly. Not my Rikki. You keep to your studies, and someday, you’ll be a big success.”
If Rita had taken a knife and stabbed Rikki, it couldn’t have been more painful. Rikki was convinced that Rita thought she wasn’t pretty.
“Now let’s get you to school,” Rita said as Queens High came into view.
◆
“Let me off over there.” Rikki pointed to the corner.
“Don’t be silly,” Rita answered. “I’ll drop you in front of the school.”
“No, here,” Rikki insisted. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
Rita shrugged. “Anyone would think you were embarrassed to be seen with me.” She patted the plastic kerchief encasing her spoolies. “Is it my hair? Is that the problem?” She peered into the rear-view mirror.
Rikki sighed. Some truths were best conveyed with silence.
“Okay, no one has to tell me the score. Wait till you’re my age,” Rita said as she pulled over to the curb. “You think it’s easy being Miss Queens, the reigning beauty of the neighborhood?” She barely controlled a guffaw. “You have to work hard to look this good.”
“I’m sure,” Rikki said as she dismissed her grandmother, who was now boldly laughing. She leaned over and gave Rita a fast peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later. Thanks for the ride.” She stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind her. Looking back, she could see Rita inside, wildly waving.
As she walked through the gates and up the stairs of Queens High, Rikki merged into the rush of students. The hallways were packed. Slightly out of breath from climbing to the third floor, Rikki headed to first-period English. She was relieved to finally slip into the classroom. Among the crush of students, she’d felt intensely uncomfortable. Was she moving too slowly? Too fast? Not pretty enough? Was she taking up too much space in the hallway? Gnawing self-doubts were always with her, but nowhere as magnified, or as powerful, as in the halls of Queens High.
The class had been reading Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, and Rikki had a well-worn used copy atop her books. Rita had taken it out of the library. “There’s no point in buying a new book,” Rita had scolded, “when there’s a perfectly good library nearby.”
Rikki had read well ahead, eager to be absorbed into the burgeoning love affair. But the book was nothing like the movie A Place in the Sun, with Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift, which she’d watched bre
athlessly with Rita on Turner Classic Movies. In the film, the characters’ names were different, and Rikki didn’t recognize much from the novel. Would they ever get to the love story? she wondered, her fingers dancing on the cover of the thick paperback.
Mr. Rosenfeld, a middle-aged man with gray hair and a matching mustache and goatee, stood at the front of the class and waited for the last of the stragglers to take their seats. He was dressed in a bright red sweater, a light blue shirt, and a black bow tie with white polka dots. The sternness of his manner contrasted wildly with the boldness of his clothing choices as he assessed the students before him.
As soon as the bell sounded, Mr. Rosenfeld began expounding on Dreiser’s narrative, and though Rikki was enjoying the novel, a certain sleepiness came over her. When Mr. Rosenfeld turned his back to the class and began to write on the blackboard, Rikki was thinking about handsome Montgomery Clift. She jumped when her daydream was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.
“Rikki, I’ll meet you in the cafeteria for lunch later,” Barbra whispered from behind. “I have something important to ask.”
Rikki turned around.
Barbra Winer smiled, revealing a mouth full of silver. Her hair, dyed a gothic black, was piled high atop her head, knotted loosely, strands falling here and there. She wore dark red lipstick, which clashed with her olive-green blouse covered in ruffles.
Rikki thought she looked like a pirate in a beehive hairdo.
“That girl’s on her way to becoming a tramp,” Rita had said on more than one occasion when Barbra had visited. “That rat’s nest. And those clothes. And the way she swoons over boys. Her mother needs to get that one in hand,” Rita had warned Rikki, a finger in the air. “You mark my words. She’s bad news.”
Rikki had given up reminding Rita that Barbra’s mother was long dead.
Barbra leaned forward, arms resting on the desk, stretching herself forward awkwardly. “It’s a gift from my stepmother,” she said defensively as Rikki’s eyes fell upon one of her sleeves. “She forced me to wear it today.” Barbra made a face as if a bad odor had come over her. “Isn’t it perfectly awful? I tried to say no, but she kept pushing. And you know how she is. If I don’t do what she wants, she talks with my father. It was just easier to wear it.” Barbra shrugged as if it was all fine.
Rikki nodded that she understood, but if Rita had ever made her wear such an ugly blouse, she was certain she’d skip school altogether and spend the rest of the day in Flushing Meadows Park roaming the empty pavilions that had once hosted the 1964 New York World’s Fair. Rikki loved the park with its iron spheres and weathered pavilions. So peaceful and quiet.
Mr. Rosenfeld was done at the board and called the class back to order by tapping a wooden pointer on the edge of his desk. Rikki joined the others as she spun about to full attention.
“Can anyone,” Mr. Rosenfeld asked, his voice edged with excitement as he looked out at the assembled class of juniors, “tell me what Dreiser’s motivation might have been for telling this particular story?” He held the hardcopy of Dreiser’s book pressed to his chest.
There was silence.
“Well, it certainly is a wonderful story,” he said with a big grin. “It’s a classic tale of America. The hopes and dreams of a young man who struggles to better himself. So today,” and Mr. Rosenfeld turned to the chalkboard where he’d written out the word IDENTITY in capital letters, “we’re going to discuss identity—who we are as Americans, and what it means to be an American in Dreiser’s world.”
Rikki felt herself growing impatient. She didn’t want to talk about Dreiser’s America. What was the point? How could a discussion about another time and place be instructive? She started to doodle mindlessly in her open notebook.
“So let’s begin,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, his voice rising to an excited pitch. “Who’d like to start? Who can tell me what is driving Clyde to leave Kansas City?”
The classroom was quiet. Rikki drew a dinosaur that looked an awful lot like Dino from The Flintstones. Then she heard her name being called. Startled, she looked up to find Mr. Rosenfeld standing before her, looking down.
“Rikki, let’s start with you. What do you think? Why does Clyde want to leave Kansas City?”
“Well,” she began, “he’s unhappy.”
“Yes,” Mr. Rosenfeld nodded. “But a lot of people are unhappy. That doesn’t necessarily make them leave home.”
“But there’s nothing for him there,” she said somewhat indignantly, her heart beating rapidly, hoping that Mr. Rosenfeld might turn his attention elsewhere. “It all seemed so hopeless.”
“Is that the only reason?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked, his blue eyes looking through her.
Rikki thought for a moment. “And he was running away from that accident. The car hit a little girl and killed her. And even though he wasn’t driving, Clyde was afraid he might be prosecuted.”
Mr. Rosenfeld nodded his approval.
“But he was always afraid . . .” Rikki continued, as she realized the motivation of the character. “Afraid he’d never rise above his parents’ station in life. That he’d always be the poor son of missionaries. Trapped in a life that he didn’t want.”
“Yes,” Mr. Rosenfeld smiled, shifting his attention from Rikki to the class. “Dreiser is exploring the class system in America. And this is but one story of a young man who wants more.” He raised the book high in the air. “Clyde represents everyman. He’s all of us,” Mr. Rosenfeld declared, just as his wrist suddenly gave way and the thick novel plummeted to the floor, landing hard on his foot.
Nervous giggles filled the classroom.
“Okay, everyone,” he said as he attempted to restore order, an expression of intense pain on his face. “Start reading the assignment for tonight, and I’ll be right back.” And with an awkward step and hop, and then two larger hops, he left the classroom.
◆
“How’s he doing?” Harry asked Dr. Newbar.
Harry held Beetle in place as the little dog squirmed on the vet’s steel examining table, head hidden under Harry’s arm, butt toward Newbar. Harry stroked Beetle’s hindquarters in a steady motion, trying to calm him.
“Good,” Newbar announced, removing the stethoscope from Beetle’s underbelly and looking up. His kind hazel eyes belied his formal demeanor. The certificates on the wall indicated that he’d graduated from veterinary school with high honors and yet he was as easy to talk with as any average Joe on the street. “Everything seems normal,” he said, patting Beetle on his haunch. “Of course, he still has that heart murmur.”
“He’s had that since he was a puppy,” Harry pointed out.
Newbar nodded. “As for the coughing, I think it’s just a little choking. Dogs get it as they age. It happens to people, too. We begin to forget to fully swallow. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?” Newbar asked, then, without waiting for Harry to answer, added “So we cough.”
Harry took in the news. “So I’m worried about nothing?”
Newbar broke into a big grin. “At least for today. Yes.”
“Oh, good,” Harry said, then lifted Beetle off the table and nestled him in his arms. “See, boy, it’s nothing to worry about.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Working at home, he’d come to rely on Beetle to keep him on schedule. The life of a writer can be all-consuming; once the imagination is fired, the world melts away. But Beetle kept Harry grounded, connected. One yelp and Harry knew it was time to take Beetle out. A whine and Harry grabbed a treat stored in a blue jar embossed with the word “Cookies” that sat on his credenza.
If it weren’t for Beetle . . . and Richard . . . Harry was certain he’d be completely isolated from the rest of the world. Good news, he thought, as he stood at his vet’s checkout counter waiting for his credit card to clear. Richard, we’re so lucky. It was nothing at all. Just a cough.
◆
Rikki hurried along the school corridor, pushed forward by the crowd. Everyone seemed to be speaking
at once. A cacophony echoed through the building, making it impossible even to recognize the English language in the babble. It was noon and Rikki’s next period was lunch. She stopped at her hall locker to drop off her books. Pressed up against the cold metal, she twisted out her locker combination, glancing over at the nearby trophy case. She was grateful for the glass display. Without its presence, she doubted she’d be able to find her locker so quickly.
“Rikki, can I have a word with you before you go to lunch?”
Mr. Rosenfeld had followed her.
She glanced at her watch. “Sure,” she said as she placed her books in the locker, holding onto the brown lunch bag. She turned to give him her full attention.
“I’ve been impressed with your work in my class. Not only do you have real insight into the literature we’re reading, but you’re an excellent writer,” he said, his smile warm and engaging, “and I think you should consider entering the District’s writing contest. It’s a $1,000 prize. And it comes with a college scholarship.” He winked, his blue eyes sparkling. “You should give it a shot.”
Rikki was surprised. She hadn’t considered entering. She hadn’t thought she really had any talent. And certainly not as a writer. Rita had always stressed the importance of being able to support oneself. Rikki knew that, whatever she did in the future, it had to pay well. You can’t rely on a man, Rita’s voice echoed in her head. Men come and go. Don’t wind up like me, working retail . . . spending your days in lady’s shoes. Get an education and become a professional.
Rikki wondered if being a writer paid well.
“You’re talented,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Don’t waste it.” He hurried off down the hall at the sound of the bell.
Rikki glanced at the trophy case. She wondered about the students whose faces were immortalized behind the glass. Where were they now? Had they achieved their dreams? How had they managed to survive all this confusion? She peered into her open locker. The cold, dark space seemed suddenly warm and inviting. If only she could climb inside, close the door, and hide.
The moment passed.
