Foxy's Tale

by Karen Cantwell

  I need a new mother. Someone I don’t have to worry about. I wonder if they sell “gently used” moms at the Salvation Army.

  Chapter Four

  “This one is perfect for me. Perfect,” he repeated it as if he was already mentally arranging his furniture and knick knacks.

  Foxy tried to hide her excitement. “Of course, as I said, it’s a bit more than the top floor. This has the nice big garden. There’s a parking spot in the alley back here. And the private entrance from the back, too.”

  Turned out this wasn’t going to be as difficult as she’d thought. Apartments around DuPont Circle went for a premium. Especially garden apartments in old houses with charm, a fireplace, and a private entrance through a garden. Foxy had already decided to charge an extra two hundred on top of what she’d thought she would ask. After all, seeing how nicely dressed he was, the Italian shoes and all, she figured he could afford it. He was young. Foxy estimated no more than thirty, but he could have been a lawyer or a lobbyist. In D.C. young people moved up fast if they made the right connections.

  “It’s first and last month’s in advance – that’s – thirty-six hundred plus a four hundred dollar damage deposit. Four thousand dollars.” Foxy said it without emotion, but her heart was racing. She needed that rental income . . . yesterday. “I have the lease somewhere in that mess upstairs in the store. And I’ll need two references.”

  “How much were you planning to ask for that oak table?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Foxy sensed a deal. That was one thing about Foxy. She could turn on a dime. Picked up that trait in pageant school. “Did you want to buy the table, too?” She said it sweetly. Like she’d just tipped her tongue in a spoonful of maple syrup.

  “How much?”

  “Twelve – no I’m sorry, it was fifteen hundred. Delivery would be extra, but since it would just be downstairs . . .”

  “And if I could get thirty-three hundred for it?” He was calm. His voice steady. Foxy realized she’d boxed herself into a corner by making the first offer.

  “You mean you want to sell it?”

  “Yes. The difference can be credited to the first month’s rent. And what about that chandelier?”

  Foxy’d been blindsided. “What?”

  “How much are you asking?”

  “I don’t know yet . . .”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Two fifty?”

  The man did some mental calculations. “Good. Charge me seven hundred.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Perfect. I guarantee I can get twenty-five hundred. Last month’s rent.” He pulled out a check book, scribbled, ripped it out, and handed it to Foxy. “There’s the four hundred dollar damage deposit. Can you hold the apartment for two days?”

  Foxy looked him up and down trying to hide her disappointment. She’d have preferred a cashier’s check from a prosperous business man over the hope of a promise from some self-styled wheeler-dealer. “Well, Monty Hall, let’s go back to the store,” she suggested as she locked up. The man glanced around one more time. He stepped carefully on what he could see of the patio’s brick path. Weeds had invaded the garden and the path was almost obliterated. The back fence looked sturdy. He’d have to install new, better locks on the gate and maybe an alarm system. He could do that himself. A wireless device would be best.

  He imagined what he’d plant. Vegetables of course. And flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. He looked around and saw a hose bib. A tired hose lay on the ground half covered with dead branches. He tried to decide which direction the garden faced. South he thought. This was good. He wouldn’t have to plant all shade-loving plants. He thought about raspberry stalks against the wood privacy fence. At last. His own place. No more dealing with Arthur and his craziness. His outbursts and his jealous rage. No more of that damned phone waking him at all hours. No more wondering if he was going to be dumped in one day or twenty. Sanity within sight. Finally.

  “So what’s your story?” Foxy asked. “You need an apartment AND a job?”

  “Maybe I didn’t present that right, let’s start over.” He extended a hand. “I’m Knot. Spelled like the thing people do to their shoelaces, but you pronounce the K. Kuh-not.” He enunciated this part pointedly.

  Foxy shook his hand while she looked him in the eye with more attention now. “Interesting

  . . .”

  “It gets better, trust me. My last name is Knudsen.”

  “Pronounce the K?”

  “Pronounce the K.”

  “Kuh-not Kuh-nudsen?” She tried to suppress a giggle.

  “Go ahead and laugh – don’t you just love it? It’s a real ice breaker. Caused me more than a few years’ heartache in grade school, but now I’m just all about my name. It’s Swedish.” He beamed, obviously proud.

  “Well, Kuh-not,” she said with a weak smile, “Foxy Anders. Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re the one! I knew I recognized you! Married to that sports guy.” He emphasized the word sports, as if it was something incredibly exotic. “All that juicy scandal. Oh,” he added, “I am sorry. It must have been just horrible to go through. But, Lord, what a lot of publicity you got. And it went on so long. I mean, honey, you could make some hay with that. I’m surprised you don’t have an agent and a reality show in production. Especially with your looks. Or do you?” He looked at her slyly for any sign of a secret in the works.

  She shrugged. “So far no one’s chasing after me with a camera and a lineup of sponsors, so here I am, with antiques to sell and apartments to rent.”

  She thought about her desperate financial situation. If she gave him two days, maybe she’d miss other potential takers, but she liked him.

  “Okay, Kuh-not,” she said wryly, as if she almost wanted to make a joke but didn’t want to offend, “I’ll hold it for forty-eight hours. Meanwhile if anyone else comes in I’ll put them on a waiting list, and if you haven’t come up with a cashier’s check by then, I’ll have to rent it to someone else.” She wagged a motherly finger at him. “And you have to bring references.” Despite the fact that she was trying to sound tough, she really did hope he’d come up with the money. He seemed like someone good to have around.

  Foxy’s finances were indeed bleak. After l’episode de fountain, she discovered that Pete Anders was fooling around with more than the occasional “hostess.” There was gambling. Lots of it. On pro games, on college games, on golf tournaments, on who’d get voted off Dancing with the Stars – just about anything he could lay a bet on. As far as the accountant could tell, and of course this did not include any illicit betting, Pete was dropping wads from coast to coast, using winnings from one to pay off another until the couple’s finances looked like a Joan Rivers plastic surgery diagram. Foxy also discovered that most of their credit cards were maxed out. He had mortgaged their house twice and, with real estate in the toilet, they took a major bath just to get it sold and done with.

  Foxy had never paid attention to money. She’d just liked to spend it. Since there had always been plenty to spend – or so she had been told – she simply approached financial matters with a shoulder shrug and a sliver of plastic. All that was different by then. Except for one little nagging thing. Foxy still had an itch to shop. An itch she couldn’t seem to scratch hard enough.

  Late that night Amanda sat in her dark bedroom with only the laptop screen for light. She emailed a school assignment, checked her Facebook page, then clicked to Amanda’s Life in Hell.

  Night One (she typed)

  I think she rented the garden apartment. To some guy who’s almost prettier than she is. She ordered pizza for my dinner. She only eats salad. Her figure, she says. She wants me to cut my hair and stop wearing “so much black eye makeup.” Wants me to look “normal.” Good luck with that, Foxy. If you’re normal, then I want as far from normal as I can possibly get.

  Chapter Five

  A squat, baldish man stood in front of Second Chances, where a small sign on the door re
ad: “Hours of Operation: M – F 10 til 6; Sat. 12 til 5 or by APPT.”

  He held a crumpled, old, fedora, which he nervously fingered around the brim. From the back, he was a ringer for Fred Mertz on “I Love Lucy.” He puzzled over the word APPT on the sign.

  He squinted at a tattered piece of paper in his hands. His shoes were scuffed and worn. His pants were not freshly pressed and they fanned out a bit at the thigh. He looked out of place – like an Elvis-on-velvet hung on a wall at the Louvre. He looked up at the building one more time, placed the fedora on his head, fanned his hands out in a gesture of leaving his fate to the gods, and pressed forward. The little bell above the door tinkled.

  It had been a week since Knot Knudsen came through with the deal and moved into the garden apartment. He and Foxy had gotten quite chummy. He’d wheedled himself into a semi permanent position as Decorative Director, his title of choice. At the moment he was out delivering a set of silver punch bowl and cups with matching silver ladle that he called “the big dipper,” to a country club in Maryland. He used Foxy’s Escalade to make pickups and deliveries. After that he was off to collect an old steamer trunk he’d seen at a flea market.

  At first the shift in light made the little man squint. He didn’t see anyone, but there were many half-unpacked cartons strewn about the large room. Despite the disarray, it was a pleasant space with a high ceiling and turn-of-the-century rosette carved wall moldings. One corner of the room to the right of the door looked as if it had been set up with displays of small antiques arranged by size rather than type. There was a dark green velvet divan against the wall. It was handsome, he thought, and looked as if it should be in the anteroom of a grand old home.

  “Hello,” he called out, almost jumping at the sound of his own voice. He immediately heard a sound of crushing paper.

  “Yes,” a woman’s voice responded. The voice was smooth and Southern. Foxy’s voice.

  “Come in,” she said, and then he saw her stand up from where she had been kneeling behind the desk.

  “I’m sorry, we’re still getting settled and in kind of a mess. Can I help you find something particular?”

  “About the apartment I’m here?” The man rubbed his bald head as he looked around the shop. He had an accent that Foxy thought might have been eastern European, perhaps Polish? But also slightly something else that she couldn’t quite pick up.

  “Well,” Foxy emerged from behind the desk. She was stunning in a black pencil skirt and green silk blouse. She’d pulled her hair away from her face and wore flat square gold earrings that set off her eyes. She made Christie Brinkley look like yesterday’s lettuce.

  The man shrank back slightly, which Foxy found amusing but unusual.

  “We only have the third floor studio left,” she told him as she walked to where he stood just inside the door.

  “Yes,” he said and bowed his head a little. “Yes, that is the von I vould like to see.”

  Foxy looked him over, pretty sure he was not tenant material. At least not for Foxy. She assumed he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to afford this apartment, but she might as well go through the motions.

  “This is a very expensive area these days,” she chattered and groped around the desk looking for the key ring. “It’s gotten so popular, you know. And rents are going up and up.”

  He nodded at Foxy but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s unfurnished,” she drawled. “Of course we could furnish it for you in wonderful period pieces from the store.” She chuckled and looked at him sideways to check for any signal that he might have been a buyer. That could always have changed her opinion of his tenant-worthiness. Everything had a price.

  The man raised one shoulder a bit and said, “My needs are simple? A bed, a chair, a lamp. Who needs fancy?”

  Everything he said sounded a bit like a question, and Foxy realized it was sort of a Yiddish accent.

  “Ah, here they are,” she held up the keys and led him outside. She locked the store door behind her.

  “A big key ring,” said the man.

  They climbed the stairs, Foxy in the lead.

  “I don’t know what some of them are for yet,” said Foxy. “This old house must have had more doors at one time, and when it got broken up into apartments no one went through these old keys. I’ll have to do it one of these days. Here we are.”

  She fiddled with the keys until she found the right one. The studio was small but suitable for one person. Two big windows faced the gardens that backed up behind the row houses on this street and the next. When Foxy raised a window, the scent of fresh air wafted invitingly through the room. She pointed out the small kitchen and new bathroom. Foxy was lucky. The previous owners had fixed the house up nicely. A gay couple who’d moved to San Francisco. Pete’s business manager had convinced him to pick up the house as an investment. Pete never rented it out and it wound up being one of the few things Foxy got in the settlement. Besides the bad credit, the maxed out cards, the Escalade, and what jewelry she didn’t have to hock to pay the basic bills. At least she owned the house outright and could borrow against it. Which she did like a lightning strike.

  “Well, that’s it. This nice room, the kitchenette – that counter is real granite – and the bathroom.” Foxy chattered on.

  “Granite schmanite, who needs more?” The little man stood there like a lost cat.

  “What?” Foxy asked.

  “An apartment. Who needs more? I vill be paying you how much?”

  “It’s twelve hundred a month. A one-year lease. Two months in advance and a one month damage deposit. Cashiers check only for the first payments. And you’ll have to supply two references.” Foxy looked him square in the eye. Which was not easy since she dwarfed him by about six inches.

  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a horse-choking wad of bills. He stepped over to the counter that divided the small kitchen from the room and began laying out hundreds. When he counted out six months rent, he nodded to Foxy.

  “References I got. Tomorrow. Move my stuff the next day. And then ve all set. Lickety-splits.” For the first time, he smiled. A little crooked smile. And took a deep breath as if all this had been a huge burden. His skin was ashen and, for a moment, Foxy wondered if climbing two sets of stairs was going to be too much for this little fellow. She felt a wash of motherly sympathy for a few seconds and then buried it. She couldn’t afford sympathy these days. She had a sudden urge to visit that little shop on Nineteenth Street, the one with the pale blue halter dress and matching jacket in the window. Cash was just what she needed. It certainly calmed her nerves.

  On the second floor, Amanda had returned from school. She could hear her mother’s voice through the open apartment door upstairs. And then the man’s voice answering. She dumped her backpack and sweater and propped her laptop on a pillow.

  Week One of Amanda’s Life in Hell Is Almost Over (she wrote)

  Another one. Renter. This is so whack. Having strangers in the same building. What am I supposed to do if I meet this freak on the stairs? At least the other guy has his own back entrance. On the other hand, how do I know who he’s bringing in and out? And he’s getting downright chummy with Foxy. Thank GOD she’ll never hook up with him. She left me a note to order Chinese takeout for dinner. Foxy – the very definition of motherly.

  Chapter Six

  Foxy had been so busy she hadn’t shopped all week. Except for items to stock the store, she’d only bought two pairs of shoes and three dresses since moving into the DuPont house. But today was slow; the workmen were finishing the built-in shelves and cabinets for the shop, so she was off to the mall. Tyson’s Two, Neiman’s and Saks. It was only the first month and she was flush with advance rents and store sales, feeling a little high, the way an admired woman feels at a party when all heads turn in her direction. She hadn’t even deposited the little man’s cash yet. It was sitting right there in her purse. A bulging wad held together with a thick rubber band.

  He’
d come back the next day with two impressive references, both from embassies. Washington was a big embassy town. Foxy had made the party circuit when Pete was playing football. Party throwers liked to add hot celebrity jocks and their beautiful women to a guest list.

  In careful block letters he wrote out Myron Standlish on the rental application. Although Foxy didn’t know it, that was not his actual surname but, like many immigrants to America, he had given himself a new name to go with his new country. Foxy studied the application while she waited for Knot to return from an errand. Knot ran endless errands. The last one was to pick up some special face cream a friend of his had brought back from Switzerland. Knot told Foxy she’d kill to get it once she tried it. Foxy didn’t mind the errands. Since he started at Second Chances, he’d sold five items at almost double what Foxy would have charged. Today he’d gone on a personal shoe mission. Some sort of walking shoes that he planned to wear on a weekend trip to the mountains.

  The little man’s application listed the previous residence of Myron Standlish as Gdansk, Poland. Foxy would have guessed he was some sort of embassy employee, but on the application he’d listed The International Plasma Institute as his employer. She was not particularly interested in what kind of work he did as long as he could pay the rent. Washington ran amok with all sorts of people representing any number of international and national interests. The door opened and she shoved the application into a drawer. Foxy was not big on filing and record keeping. The contractors were back from lunch. In a minute the sound of drills and hammers would fill the store.

  Knot shoved the door open with his shoulder, shopping bags dripping from both hands.