Dorothy on the Rocks (24 page)

“Is that your Westie?” he asks.

“Not exactly. He belongs to my neighbor.”

“You mean Sandy? I thought he looked familiar. How is Sandy? I haven't seen her in a while. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure. She and Dick are out of town for a few days. So I'm on dog duty.”

“Oh, I see,” he says puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. It's all I can do not to reach over and wrestle it out of his hand and take a good long drag. “She didn't mention she was going out of town. We often have our morning coffee together right here on this bench. She didn't mention a trip.”

“Well, maybe it slipped her mind.”

“She's a good woman.”

“Yes,” I agree. I am getting the feeling a little more is going on between Sandy and Mr. Dogwalk than just walking dogs. Of course, it could be one-sided and Sandy is oblivious to the attention,
or maybe she is having a wild and passionate affair. Either way it's none of my business. What is my business is the cigarette thing. I have to get going or I'm going to knock this guy out and steal the pack of Marlboros he has stashed in his pocket.

“Well, I've got to head out. Nice talking to you. Come on, Ed, let's go,” I call to my four-footed friend. Ed comes running over and Mr. Dogwalk reaches down and ruffles his ears and pats his head.

“Good boy,” he says. It's obvious he and Ed are friends.

“Tell Sandy I said hello when you see her. And tell her I'm still here every morning at the usual time, in case she's interested.”

“Yeah. I sure will.” This guy has it bad. I think the affair ended and Sandy decided to get back with Dick and that's what the sudden vacation in the Caribbean is about. But I'm sure Mr. Dogwalk hasn't completely given up. Gosh, there is a soap opera sitting on every park bench in this big old city of dreams.

Ed and I stroll around the ball fields and then I head toward Belvedere Castle. And before I know it we are going to the scene of the crime. My feet seem to be leading me there, and it's as if I have no choice but to follow. Mr. Ed starts sniffing furiously as we get close to the knoll where I was attacked.

“It's okay, Ed,” I say. “I think it might be good if we go together and take a look at it. I think it might be therapeutic. What do you think, little guy?”

Ed stops and cocks his head up toward me. I squat down beside him and pet his head. “Are you nervous about being here with me?”

“Arf, arf, arf,” Ed replies.

“I see. You are apprehensive. Well, so am I, but they say it's good to face your fears. I don't always agree with that, but I know
you are still upset with me and I was hoping this might open a door for us to have a dialogue about our experience.” I look around for a second, momentarily self-conscious about speaking so frankly with a dog. It might seem strange to someone watching us. But then again, maybe not. I don't know anyone who doesn't talk to his or her dog, especially if the dogs talk back.

“Arf,” Ed says moving in the direction of the knoll.

“I'll take that as a yes.” We find the spot together. Mr. Ed circles around a bit and then starts to bark as if to say, “This is it, this is where I saved your life.” The spot is isolated even in the full light of day. What a fool I was to come here in the dark and jeopardize my safety and Mr. Ed's. What a fool. It's a miracle we both survived. I get down close to the ground and watch him exorcise the ghost of bad things past. He barks and yaps and then comes over and licks my face and pushes his body against mine. I hold him in my arms and rock him back and forth.

“You are a good boy. You are my hero,” I say. Ed perks up his ears and licks my face some more.

“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf,” he says and nestles in my arms.

“I love you too,” I say. “You're the best dog in the whole world.”

The next few days are a blur. I sleep a lot and spend time with Mr. Ed. We walk all over Central Park and Riverside Park. I don't smoke and I don't drink and I don't breathe as much as I should. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. For one thing I'm waiting for Jack to call, but I decide it's better that he doesn't, although it hurts like hell, because the truth is, I'm in no condition to be with another person. I can barely stand myself—why should anyone else be able to? Then I realize what I'm really waiting for is a cigarette. I think if I don't smoke I'm going to smother to death. I call my friend Brian who quit smoking a few years ago.

“I'm breathing too much oxygen. It's making me light-headed. I'm not used to it. It's giving me a headache,” I say.

“You need to breathe more,” Brian tells me. “People light a cigarette when what they really want is a deep breath. Just open up your lungs and take a good, long, slow breath, and then drink a glass of water. You'll feel better. Have you tried meditating?”

Brian is very into eastern practices. He studied Hinduism, and then Buddhism, traveled to Tibet, has a poster of Richard Gere
and the Dalai Lama in his living room. He buys his incense at a little shop in SoHo. In the late eighties he spent a year at an ashram up in the Catskills and was briefly married to a Pakistani woman who was a professional belly dancer.

“No, I'm not meditating, are you crazy? I can barely sit still long enough to go to the bathroom. I have to keep moving because if I stop for a moment I'm afraid I'll open the oven door, turn on the gas, and stick my head in.”

“Don't do that. Promise me you'll call me before you do that,” he says. “I've got to go. But keep in touch, and remember, you can do this.”

Right, of course I can. I can do this. There is a knock at my front door. It's Sandy. She looks relaxed and pleasantly sunburned.

“It was magnificent, the whole trip, too short but very sweet. Have you ever been to the Caribbean? It's so beautiful and so romantic.”

“That's great,” I say.

“Here, we brought you something.” She hands me a package.

“You didn't have to get me anything.”

“Well, I saw it and thought it was perfect for you.”

I open the box and see a lovely silver bracelet with pink coral inlay.

“Oh, Sandy, you shouldn't have. It's beautiful.”

“Well, I wanted to get you something special because of, well, you know . . .” Her voice trails off and then she adds, “Dick picked it out.”

I don't know what to do. I'm speechless. I give Sandy a hug.

“Thank you.”

“Dick and I had a great time. We really needed to get away.” Sandy says this with a big smile. “And it's always nice to go someplace new.”

“I'm glad it was a good vacation. Oh, by the way, I ran into a friend of yours at the dog run. He said to tell you hello. Tall guy. Do you know who I mean?”

“Ah, yeah, sure,” Sandy says and drops her eyes. She doesn't move, and then I notice a tear trickle down her cheek.

“Oh, Sandy,” I say. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, it's all right,” she says, dabbing at her eyes.

“Come in and sit down for a minute,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Do you want to talk? I know how those things can be.”

“It was just something that got out of hand.” She perches on the arm of the sofa. “But it's behind me now.”

“Good. Because I think you and Dick are a wonderful couple.”

“We are,” Sandy says. “Oh, God. I don't know what to do, Maggie. Todd, that's his name, is so intense, and he makes me feel so alive.”

“I see.”

“We were talking one day, and before I knew it we were under the trees next to the dog run, having sex.”

“In the morning? Oh my gosh—right in the park? Did anyone see you?”

“The undergrowth is very dense.”

“Where was Mr. Ed?” I ask.

“The dogs were in the dog run. I know it's crazy.”

“Did it just happen that once?”

“Oh, no. It's been months.”

“For months? In the undergrowth?” I ask, trying not to sound appalled.

“At first, then we started going to Todd's apartment. His wife is gone during the day and he works at home.”

“He's married too?”

“Yes. It's so complicated.”

“Do you love him?”

“I don't know. I told him it had to end. That's when I started rollerblading. I couldn't go to the dog run anymore. And I thought the vacation would put a spark back in my marriage. Dick doesn't know, but I think he suspects.”

“Did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Put the spark back?”

“It was great. Dick was so relaxed, and we were together the whole time. You know our schedules are so opposite. We really are like two ships in the night. It was great to have real time together. Even at the country house we're so busy doing chores that . . . oh God.” Sandy lets out a cry and slides off the arm onto the sofa and collapses among the cushions.

“Can I get you some water or something?”

“I don't know how I feel. I miss Todd, I ache for him, but I love Dick. Does that make sense?” she says between sobs.

“Make sense? That's the plot of just about every romantic comedy ever written.”

“I better get back,” Sandy says, righting herself on the couch and dabbing at her eyes. “Dick's waiting for me. We're going to that new Vietnamese restaurant on Eighty-fourth Street. Have you eaten there?”

“No, I haven't, but it must be good because there is always a line out front.”

“Thanks for listening,” Sandy says sotto voce, as if Dick might be standing outside with his ear pressed against the door.

“Sure,” I say in a whisper, in case he actually is. “And, Sandy, if you need me to deliver any sort of message, I'd be happy to,” I offer.

“Thanks. I'll think about it,” Sandy says.

“Well, you look great,” I say, back to full voice as I open the door. “I think the Caribbean agrees with you.”

And when I open the door, Dick is indeed in the hall, leaning against the wall skimming through the current issue of the
New Yorker
.

“Hey, Maggie,” he says.

“Dick,” I say as I nod in greeting. “Sounds like you had a great time. And thank you so much for the beautiful bracelet.”

“Well, we wanted to bring you back a little bit of paradise,” he says, leaning over and giving me a peck on the cheek.

“I appreciate it.” And with that the happy yet not-so-happy couple exits down the stairs and out the front door for a lovely meal at the new trendy restaurant down the street. And I go back to not smoking and not drinking, and not thinking about not smoking and not drinking, while quietly obsessing about how I'm not smoking and not drinking, and most definitely going completely insane.

T
HAT NIGHT THE OPENING
at Charles's gallery is packed. I get there about nine thirty and have trouble making my way through the crowd. I look for Charles but can't spot him. The usual folks are crammed in next to a new group, the artist's friends and fans of the tapestries. They are exquisite. The beads refract the light so the pieces shimmer with motion. The artist is a petite woman with cornflower blue eyes and wispy blonde hair. She is talking with a group about the process of beading. Tedious, I
think as I examine one of the pieces. It is completely hand sewn. “Ten thousand beads,” I overhear her say as I pass by. Ten thousand beads hand-sewn in one piece. I look around the room and count about twenty tapestries and then do a quick calculation. Two hundred thousand beads sewn one by one onto the fabric. Wow, that's impressive. Or is it just compulsive? What is art anyway? One person's cockeyed view of the world, expressed over and over in slightly different variations, then framed and lit and sold for a price, a really good one if you're lucky and get the right agent.

“Mags!” I hear shouted from across the room. It's Charles. I wave at him above the heads. Waiters are weaving in and out of the crowd with glasses of wine and trays of hors d'oeuvres.

“Do you have any club soda?” I ask one as he offers me a glass of wine.

“You'll have to go to the bar in back. I think there's some Pellegrino,” the waiter says.

“I know you. We did a couple of shows together at Maryland Stage a few years ago?” I say.

“Oh, my God, of course, you look so different. Is it your hair?”

“Could be. It's longer and blonder, maybe. I think that's the summer I was a redhead.”

“Yeah, you were. But I like this look.”

“Really? I've been thinking about going all the way to pure platinum, but I'm getting old for that,” I say popping a clam puff in my mouth.

“And aside from your hair, how are you?” the waiter/actor whose name I can't remember asks.

“Great. Okay. You know. I see you're making a buck.”

“Oh, yeah. Hanging in. And you?”

“I'm doing some theater. And I've got a club date at Don't Tell Mama.”

“Did you hear about Marty? He played opposite you in
Promises, Promises.
Remember?”

“Of course I remember; he stepped on every laugh line I had. I haven't seen him since Maryland.”

“He went out to LA. He's got his own series. On ABC. It starts this fall.”

“What? That's amazing,” I say, my eyes wide in genuine amazement.

“I know,” he says with nod. “I've got to circulate these clam puffs. We'll talk later. You look great.”

“Thanks, you look great too.”

Marty has his own series? Shit. How does a guy like Marty Lancer get his own series? Not only did the guy have the worst timing in the world, he was also tone deaf and couldn't act his way out of paper bag. God I want a cigarette. Why is it so hard to be happy for other people? Why? Why? Why? Shit, he's set for life if the show goes into syndication.

“Good for him,” I say out loud through clenched teeth. “Good for him.”