Alice Fantastic (13 page)

“Gina, hi,” I said, ushering my tiny friend into the kitchen. I am not a large woman, but Gina, who looks like a prepubescent Russian gymnast, makes me feel like a giantess.

“Hi, Kim.” She barely moved her mouth when she spoke and her eyes were downcast.

“What's wrong?” I asked, immediately pouring her a cup of coffee. Gina fuels her tiny body with gallons of coffee each day. To better maintain her habit, she purchased an elaborate and exorbitant cappuccino machine for the pet store.

“Nothing.” She sagged down onto one of the kitchen chairs and put her tiny hands around the coffee cup as if to heat them up, in spite of it being quite warm out. “I'm just low.”

“Oh.” I sat down opposite her. I was itching to get on the road, to drop Arturo off with his adopter and go see my errant daughter and then, very possibly, do something luxurious like get a pedicure from the cruel Korean women who have a shop near Alice's. But I could see that Gina needed me to extract information from her. Namely, what was making her low.

“Why are you low?” I pressed.

“I'm short,” Gina said.

“What?”

“I'm short. I'll never get ahead in the world due to my diminutive size.”

“Gina, that's ridiculous.”

“No. It was cute when I was a teenager. Other kids called me Tiny Girl, like the Iggy Pop song “Tiny Girls,” even though that song has little, if anything, to do with the actual size of the girls in question. As I got older, I started noticing that people would completely ignore me in social situations. Because they literally can't see me. I am so far below eye level.”

“But you're very pretty. You're a head-turner. People notice you.”

“Not unless they're short.”

I really wasn't sure what to say. Gina is in fact extremely short. There's no denying it.

“What about jockeys?” I said, remembering what Alice had once told me about the athletic power of those small people.

“You're comparing me to a jockey?”

“No, Gina, I just mean that they are short yet very powerful.”

“And unless they're on top of a horse, no one will even see them,” Gina replied, disconsolate.

“What brought this on?” I asked, striving to sound patient and solicitous though I could feel the clock ticking and my pack of dogs eagerly waiting for something, anything, to happen.

“I'm interested in a tall guy.”

“Well, I would hazard a guess he'll be interested in you too.”

“No,” she shook her head, “he doesn't even see me. I mean literally. I'm too short. He's too tall.” She stared into space as she took several sips of her coffee. “Shit,” she said then, “I'm sorry I'm so self-involved. How are you, Kim?” She looked at me then screwed up her forehead. “You don't look that good. Have you lost a lot of weight?”

“I've had some kind of flu but I'm fine.”

“You still sleeping with a man?”

“Apparently, yes.” I smiled.

“You don't seem to mind.”

“No. You know, it's surprisingly nice. More than nice.”

Gina smiled, showing her tiny, perfect teeth.

After giving her elaborate instructions on what to do with the dog pack in my absence, I put Arturo in the car and got on the road. I'd only gone one exit down the thruway when my cell phone rang. I wasn't going to answer it as I loathe people who talk on their phones while driving, but I glanced down and saw the incoming number. It was Sue, the accountant who was interested in Chico. I'd forgotten to call her.

There was a rest stop a few miles later and I pulled in, let Arturo out in case the excitement of the car ride had made him need to pee, and called Sue back. She said she had slept on it and called her mother and sister and ex-boyfriend and discussed it and, yes, she wanted the dog. I told her I'd send her the formal application that night. She sounded enthralled. I was glad for her. And for Chico.

The Toy Box was a small but lavish shop on Greenwich Avenue in the West Village. It was packed to the rafters with bright and beautiful toys, the sorts of things I would have liked to buy my girls when they were little but of course could not as I was destitute. I saw several of Eloise's animals prominently displayed and remembered that this was how Jerry, the toy store owner, had come to be interested in Arturo. He'd commented on so many of Elo's animals being dogs and they'd gotten to talking about my rescue work.

Jerry had a round but attractive face and bright blue eyes that smiled. When he saw Arturo, he looked as excited as Sue had sounded on the phone.

“Oh my god, he's even more magnificent in person. Or in dogdom,” Jerry said, getting down on his haunches and putting his hand out, waiting for the delicate Italian greyhound to approach him.

Within seconds, Arturo was licking Jerry's hands and accepting the treats he had in his pockets.

“Oh, Kimberly,” he said a few minutes later, as he sat behind the counter, Arturo perched in his lap, “you've made me a proud and happy man.” He went on to extol Eloise's virtues. We exchanged some pleasantries and then, without turning back to look at Arturo, I left the toy store. I think people assume that animal rescuers become inured to feelings of loss after finding an animal a home, but it's a heartbreak each time, a small earthquake inside.

I had parked the Honda in an illegal spot on Christopher Street and was surprised to discover I had neither been towed nor ticketed. I got in and pointed the car east, toward Alice's in Queens.

There was traffic. Traffic heading east, traffic heading north, traffic getting onto the 59th Street Bridge. As I turned right off the bridge, into Long Island City, the mess thinned out. Now there were just occasional trucks, a few passenger cars, more sky. I found a parking spot across the street from Alice's, locked the Honda, and crossed over to the small, wood-sided house my first late husband left my daughter. I was glad for it. Glad that, after his many years of ne'er-do-wellism, Sam had at least managed to own a little property and see to it that his only daughter had a place to hang her hat and could even draw a steady income from the garden apartment rental. Though Alice never admits it, I suspect that the $1,400 a month the apartment brings in makes it possible for her to earn a living as a gambler, to endure long dry spells and still be able to pay her basic bills. But we never discuss this. Alice isn't a prideful sort of woman, at least not about most things, but she does feel superior to the vast majority of the population by virtue of being able to identify herself as a professional gambler on her tax returns. I suppose it is the quintessential act of getting over, and if she were an addict like me, it might be dangerous. But she's not. She's incredibly logical and levelheaded. Except where men are concerned.

I rang the bell and was buzzed in. As I climbed up the stairs, Alice's dog Candy came racing down the steps, wiggling and letting out excited barks. I scooped the small beast into my arms and let her lick my face, a thing I know Alice doesn't permit.

“You shouldn't encourage licking, Mom, most people don't care for that sort of thing.”

She was standing at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips, looking down at me. She was wearing navy sweat pants that hung down so far over her narrow hips, I was surprised her pubic hair wasn't showing. Her long, skinny feet were bare and there was chipped red polish on her toes.

“Nice to see you too, darling,” I said, reaching the top of the stairs. I deposited Candy on the floor, then kissed my daughter on each cheek.

“What possessed you to actually warn me you were coming?” Alice inquired as we went inside her apartment.

“I had to ask you something and wanted to make sure you'd be here.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn't.”

“So are you going to ask or just keep me in suspense?” Alice sat down on the couch and tucked her feet under her butt.

“I wonder if you'd come look after the dogs so I can take a vacation.”

“Vacation?” Alice looked genuinely shocked. “Yes. I need a vacation.”

She considered this long and hard.

“Betina and I broke up,” I said, warming myself up for telling her about Joe.

“I know. Eloise told me. And you're knocking boots with your neighbor Joe.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling mildly miffed that I wasn't getting to tell her myself and that she seemed completely unfazed by my sleeping with a man.

“I can't keep track of you and Elo with all your gender switching. I may have curious taste in bed mates, but at least they're always the same gender.”

“Don't feel superior about it. Maybe Eloise and I are just more open.”

Alice rolled her eyes.

“Yes, Mom,” she said then, “I'll watch your unruly hounds so you can go off and shag your neighbor on a beach somewhere.”

“Don't make it sound so … so …”

“Debauched?”

“Exactly. I'm deeply fond of Joe.”

“Mother, are you in love with a
man
?”

“You're being callous.”

“I'm just asking a question. Tell me.”

“I've come to realize I know nothing about love.”

“You
love
him,” Alice practically squealed.

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

“It's possible,” I admitted.

Alice looked exceptionally pleased with this bit of information. I wasn't quite sure why.

“And what of
your
man?” I asked.

“William?”

“Who's William?”

“A guy I met.”

“What about Clayton? This morning you were wistful and pining for Clayton.”

“Clayton is in Rikers.”

“So who is William?”

She told me. At length. More length than I suppose I really wanted or needed. Graphic details of their lovemaking, of his three cats and his pit bull and his small architectural firm.

“You're not listening to me, Mom,” Alice said.

“Yes I am,” I lied.

“Am I grossing you out?”

“Alice, I think it's nice that you sound genuinely moved by another human being. I admit that I don't trust it though. You have the most fickle heart of any individual I've ever known.”

“I know,” she said, surprising me with self-awareness. “William does something to me. Something I'm not sure I want done to me. But there's no question he does it.”

“You barely know him.”

“True,” she shrugged. Then frowned. “What's wrong with you, Mom?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don't look that good.”

“That's not nice.”

“You look thin. A little sallow.”

“I've had the flu.”

“Oh?” She was really scrutinizing me.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said, trying to look cheerful. “So,” I added, changing the subject, “Arturo has a home and it looks like Chico does too, so it's only fifteen dogs.”

“
Only
and
fifteen
do not normally go in the same sentence when talking about quantity of dogs, Mom. Anyway, I imagine you'll be going to the pound on your way out of town to pick up five three-legged pit bulls or something.”

“No. I'm going to scale down a little.”

“Really?” Alice looked incredulous.

I promised that she would only have to care for fifteen, maybe even fewer, depending on exactly when Joe and I ended up taking this vacation of ours. Not that Alice seemed to care. For once, she had made up her mind to help me and there didn't seem to be many conditions on her providing that help.

We talked about men, women, and dogs for another half hour and then I kissed my eldest goodbye and went back down to my car. I skipped the planned pedicure as I wasn't feeling very well and wanted to get back on the thruway, back to Woodstock, back to the trees, the air, the dogs. And Joe.

Night had come, misty and cool, the many trees around my house rustling like clean sheets. Sue had dropped by, signed the adoption contract, and then whisked Chico off into the sunset. I'd watched the two drive away, pit bull and banker, in love. Eloise had called from Toronto to announce that she'd taken in a German shepherd she'd found in an alley behind the hotel where she was staying with Ava Larkin.

All was as it should be.

I settled the dogs in, then went over to Joe's.

I found him sitting at the piano. His button-down shirt was rumpled and his hair looked dirty. His glasses were perched crookedly on the tip of his nose.

“Hi,” he looked up and offered a weak smile.

“Hi, yourself.” I walked over and kissed him. His lips tasted like coffee.

He'd been working on a piano piece commissioned by a grande dame who'd been married to a minorly famous but now-dead composer. Lilian, the grande dame, missed having personalized compositions left on her pillow several times a month. Now, nearing the age of ninety, she went around plucking youngish composers from the New York scene, giving them small commissions to write her piano pieces that she then butchered in her overheated living room as her aged friends sat around sipping fruit-flavored liqueur. Joe was one of her favorites and she hired him at least three times a year but became more demanding each time, spending hours on the phone badly expressing what it was she wanted.

“You look exhausted,” I said, sitting down next to him.

“I'm drained,” he replied, petting my head.

In spite of not feeling well, I'd wanted him to ravage me. To put his hands all over my body. To prop me on top of him, to throw me face first on the bed. But that all evaporated now as I felt his exhaustion, and in place of the lust I'd been harboring a few minutes earlier, I felt a gentle tenderness, a desire to be kind to him for a very long time.

I kissed his neck and offered to make him some food as I was sure he hadn't eaten anything in hours.

“That's okay,” he said softly, “just sit here with me, be with me, restore me.”