Slim to None (23 page)

"I think he’ll be fine."

"Can we see him now?" I ask.

The vet nods. "Now you’ll probably be disturbed a the sight of him. He’s still pinned down and has IV’s running in him. Patches of his fur are shaved off. He’s still under sedation."

William takes my hand and we enter the recovery area and see our baby looking so weak and vulnerable. With bald patches where he normally has that wonderful teddy bear fur I love to run my fingers through.

I lean over and kiss his head, scratching his ears like he loves so much. Even though he’s still asleep I swear his tail wags a little bit.

"Sweet dog, I’m so sorry I let this happen to you," I whisper into his ear. "I don’t know how I let go of you but I’m so grateful your life was spared. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you like this."

I try to wrap my arms around him but with the fluid attached to him and tubes all over the place I’m afraid I’m going to disconnect something vital.

I lean over and bury my face in William’s neck and cry.

"Hey, why ya crying? He’s going to be fine, sweetie. Only happy tears tears now, okay?"

William reaches out to wipe my tears away with his thumb.

We sit with Cognac for a good long while as he comes out of the fog of anesthesia. He’s weak and not very responsive but he does know we’re here and I can tell he wants to move to greet us but his body won’t let him.

The vet techs tell us we need to let him rest, so finally, with great reluctance, we leave the room. We’re given information about his stay at the vet clinic, and hours during which we might be able to visit him, and warned that he’s got a long road to recovery ahead of him. I feel horrible about it all and can’t help but beat myself up over the what-if’s, even though I know it’s not particularly productive.

As we’re walking out of the clinic, William leans over to give me a simple kiss on the lips. "You’ll call me if you hear anything on him?"

"You’re not coming back home?" I’d just assumed he would, what with this crisis and all.

He shakes his head. "Not yet, Abbie. I’ll let you know when I’m ready."

With that he turns and begins to walk the opposite direction that we were going, never once looking back, as I stand, empty-handed. No dog, no husband, no nothing. If I thought things felt empty before, that was nothing compared to this.

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. 

ingredients

1 c. (2 sticks) butter softened

1 c. Brown sugar

1/2 c. sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

1-1/4 c. flour (I used Wondra flour which is pre-sifted—I also use this for my pies, but it’s not always easy to find it)

1 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

3 c. oats (use old-fashioned and not the quick oats)

2 c. chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars till creamy.

Add eggs and vanilla; beat well

Add combined flour, baking soda & salt, mix well

Stir in oats and chocolate chips.

Drop by rounded tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet.

Bake 10-12 minutes or until golden brown.

Cool 1 minute on cookie sheet and transfer to wire rack.

yields about 4 dozen cookies

*(can also spread out on ungreased 13 X 9" metal baking pan and baked for 30-35 minutes, then cut into bars)

Ginger and Spice and All That’s Nice

Coping. I’m all about coping right now. And part of coping for me means pretending that my dog is not recovering from near-death without me by his side while also pretending that my husband is just away on business and not on an extended hiatus away from me. Hell, I wonder if this was what Sally went through when George disappeared. I don’t suppose there’s much chance that William is lounging on a park bench anywhere in town, though. He likes his creature comforts too much for that.

Oh, God, what if his creature comforts involve large breasts and an hourglass figure? I mean maybe that Vespa girl wasn’t the one, but maybe there is a
one
. Maybe even if there isn’t one this very second, maybe there’ll be one in an hour.

He might meet her at the bus stop today. Even though he doesn’t ever ride a bus. Well, maybe he’ll be pressed up against her on the subway. What greater way to achieve instant intimacy with a gorgeous blond—and they’re always blond—than to be flesh-to-flesh in a rush hour subway car, when there’s no way to move, or if there is, it’s minimal. Only enough to get a little more intimate.

Maybe she’ll have just stopped off for a mojito for happy hours, the crushed mint still lingering on her breath. And there they’ll be, jostling with the jiggling motion of the train, back and forth, side to side, over and under. Wait, no over and under.

And maybe William will
really
notice another woman, for the first time in all these years. A tall, blond, well-endowed woman. A thin one, with no food obsessions whatsoever. In fact, she probably eschews eating in favor of herbal tea and colonic cleanses. They’re all the rage, you know. Maybe he’s already taken her back to his little pied-a-terre. Not that he has one—I mean as far as I know he doesn’t. But where is he, anyhow? And it seems like this would be just the right time to have a pied-a-terre and use it accordingly.

You might be thinking that I am losing it and you might well be right about that. But how can I not be under the circumstances? My whole life has gone topsy-turvy on me and I feel like one of those enormous sea turtles that got flipped over on my back on the sand when the tide went out, flapping my flippers helplessly, completely unable to right myself without outside intervention.

Only I don’t think there is any outside intervention—no one waiting to swoop in and save me this time. I guess it’s up to me to figure that out.

* * *

A week has passed since the accident and I’ve thrown myself into not being all about myself. Gym, work, gym, work. I’ve written enough columns to get me through a couple of months at this rate. And at the gym, I got weighed and found out I’ve lost another fifteen pounds: it seems that the tragedy diet does me well. Nothing like losing all that’s important to you to take away your appetite I suppose. The only way to lose is to lose. Hell, I can’t even muster up enough desire to eat the usual stress-eating standbys. It’s all very weird.

Speaking of weird, I got a call today from Ling Chung, he of the recent phone conversation I heard with Barry. Seems Ling wanted to let me know that Barry had been up to no good with me, too. He had received my photograph way back when, before I was outed. I asked him whether Barry was trying to extort money out of him in order to get a good review, and he finally ’fessed up. Seems he was worried he’d ruin everything if he admitted that, what with Barry’s strong-arm tactics.

Surprise, surprise. Luckily I’ve concocted a little surprise of my own for Barry, with the help of a new-found sister of mine.

* * *

It’s midnight and I’m lurking behind the trash dumpster in the grim alleyway behind Happy Chung, with Jane, of all people. After hearing all about Barry while we did the weight circuit the other day, she begged to join me to witness his comeuppance. I’ve toted along a camera I borrowed from one of the photographers at work. The only reason I didn’t call in a photographer from the Post to do the honors is I’d like to spare my paper any public humiliation and I hope that Mortie will deal with this discreetly. Though part of me would love the joy of having Barry’s weasel-face splattered across the pages of the paper in my stead. I can see the headline:
GOTCHA UNDER GLASS.
Revenge would be delicious. Of course it would probably only resurrect my shame, so who needs that?

"You think he’ll really buy into this?" Jane whispers to me.

I hold my finger up to my lips to indicate silence. I hear a man getting out of a cab just down the way, slamming the door, then whistling the tune "Whistle While You Work" as he strolls along the alley. I peer around the side of the dumpster and see it’s Barry. Thank goodness he’s so entirely predictable! What a fool.

He approaches the unmarked entrance to the restaurant and taps out the first six beats to "Billie Jean" against the metal door—honestly, the man is such a drama queen. Ling Chung opens the door and steps out into the alley, the two of them brightly illuminated by a street lamp directly overhead, Ling in a heavily-stained apron, with a cleaver in his hand, Barry in a slick long black leather duster coat and dark shades, evidently channeling The Matrix.

"You have what I came for?" Barry asks.

Ling nods and glances around in search of us. Jane has the camcorder rolling now. "You wanted it in all fifties, right?"

"You’ve got a hundred of ‘em?"

"Count it out if you want."

"Ling old boy, I trust you. Now I got my money, you’ll get your review."

Ling hands Barry the envelope. In the shadows I’m snapping away, the loud exhaust fan from the kitchen just barely blocking the sound of the motorized film advance.

A rat skitters across the ground near their feet in perfect timing. Jane—recording it all for posterity on a camcorder,—and I step out of the shadows.

"And now it seems you’ll get yours, Barry, old boy," I say.

He gasps, staring at me, then Jane, then me again. "Abbie! What are you doing here? And who’s your little friend? What’s this all about?"

"Why don’t you tell me what it’s all about Barr?" I say, pointing to Jane’s camcorder. "Don’t you have something to say to the camera?"

Barry starts to lunge at us but Ling is a quick little guy and inserts himself, cleaver and all, between us and Barry.

"I think this is what we call in the food biz your ‘just desserts,’ isn’t it Barry? You screw me, I screw you. You didn’t think you’d get away with this, did you?"

"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Abbie? I’m not doing anything." He’s inching away .

"Besides, I’m back in shape, now, Barry. Your gig was only a temporary one. It’s all over for you."

"You call yourself
in shape
?" he says, scoffing at me. Ouch. Low blow. Of course he knows my Achilles heel and would say that to me even if I were as thin as one of Ling Chung’s famous sambal pepper five-spice noodles.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones," I say, sticking my tongue out at him. Jane cracks up. Barry tries to lurch toward the camera again but Ling lifts the cleaver, at the ready. You ever see a Chinese chef with a cleaver? Barry knows not to mess with the dude.

Jane holds the camcorder up and points it right in his face, zooming the lens for a tight shot. She starts talking to him like you would to a child you’re videotaping trying out a bike without training wheels. "Wave to the camera, Barry! Why don’t you tell us all about how you’ve ratcheted up the expense accounts? Oh, and about the money you’ve been extorting from restaurateurs? Now it’s time to wave bye-bye to your sweet little job, because you are so out of one, as of now."

Barry tries to run but he trips over a recycling bin and sprawls on the ground.

"Hey, come on now, Abbie,
friend
. You gotta tell me what’s going on here?"

"Just about the most perfect time I’ve had at a restaurant in ages, that’s what,
Barr, old boy
. I can’t thank you enough for such a lovely evening."

With that I grab Jane’s hand and with the added security of Ling’s protective cleaver, we back toward the door into the restaurant.

"Gee, Barry, its been real. Hope you enjoy being on the other side of this job, because that’s precisely where you’re gonna be. Bon appetit!"

With that I wave with my fingers and we escape into the restaurant, high-fiving each other on a perfectly-executed operation.

* * *

Mortie’s late-night email contains the incriminating video footage—uploaded to Youtube, conveniently—and the photographs, as well as an attached letter attesting to the events of the evening from Ling Chung himself. I prefer to not even deal with Mortie directly and instead just want Barry to fade off into the sunset. Which seems to be precisely what happens, as Barry simply doesn’t show up at work, from what we hear.

By dawn, Mortie’s leaving me message after message, wanting to talk turkey. As if I have any interest in talking turkey, trout, even water buffalo with the guy. I’ve got too many other things I need to deal with in my life right now; somehow the whole
Sentinel
and my former job just seem entirely irrelevant, when viewed in light of my missing husband and wounded poochie.

* * *

The next day my doorbell rings. What I would give to have Cognac barking needlessly at the door right now. I can’t bear the silence of his absence. Not to mention the silence of William’s void. I peer through the peephole to see Sally, aqua Lilly headband in place, oversized Gucci sunglasses dwarfing her skinny-lady cheekbones. Today she’s in her
off-to-play-mahjong
outfit: bright aqua velour Juicy Couture sweatpants and coordinating hoodie.

"Sally!" I greet her warmly. That I’m welcoming near-strangers with the warmth reserved for long-lost friends is a sure sign that I’m lonely.

She marches in like she owns the place and plops herself down on a kitchen barstool.

"Nice," she says, nodding and pointing around my near-commercial kitchen.

"Thanks."

"You like to cook?"

"You think I’d have a set-up like this if I didn’t?"

She dangles her sunglasses from her teeth and stares at me like I’m nuts. "Doesn’t everybody?"

I’d forgotten she hails from the school of thought that more is better and that goes for everything in your living space, even if you don’t know how to use it. I just shrug and continue on.

"To what do I owe this visit?" I daren’t say pleasure, as that would be stretching things a bit.

"I came to show you the guest list before I share everything with Gretl."

"You need to show her your guest list?"

"She stays up on the gossip so she always wants to know if anyone she’s seen in Page Six will be there."

I roll my eyes. Household help of the rich and famous.

Sally whips out a guest list that could be for a State dinner it’s so long.

"I thought this was an intimate affair with just family?"

"It is an intimate affair with mostly family," she says. "I had to throw in a few extras—I mean everyone’s going to want to see George, you know. But I kept the extras to only our closest friends."

Oh, Lord, I worry that George is going to turn tail and run for cover if he shows up to a whole horde of people.

"You’re sure about this?"

"I insist," she says. "I know my George. There’s not a name on here that wouldn’t be glaringly missing if I omitted it."

I throw my hands up. "You’re the boss. I’m just in charge of getting him there."

"And you’ve got everything set for that?"

"Not exactly, but it’s all under control."

"Not exactly? Abbie, I would be the laughingstock of Pound Ridge if we did all of this and George didn’t show."

"We couldn’t have Pound Ridge laughing at you. Not to worry, he’ll show. Trust me." The things I get myself into sometimes.

"And you’ve got the menu all set?"

"That’s Gretl’s problem. I trust her to keep the menu dignified and in keeping with the importance of the occasion." I hesitate to speculate on what would constitute an undignified menu—a phallic-shaped pound cake for dessert?

She whips out a folder with detailed information on getting to the house.

"And when you get to the gate, tell Junior you’re a friend of the family’s."

The gate? Junior? "Won’t he recognize George?"

"Last time he saw George he didn’t look quite so, uh, urban as he does now. I have a feeling no one’s going to recognize the man." She rolls her eyes at the thought of him appearing so vagrant-like.

Well, it’ll be my surprise, then, to gussie him up for the event.

Sally and I talk a little bit longer and then I show her to the door.

"Don’t worry, this will work like a charm!" I assure her.

She waves with her sunglasses before hiding her face behind them and she’s gone.

* * *

A few hours later I receive a flower delivery. I quickly sign for the flowers, one of those spectacular arrangements you’d see in the lobby of The Pierre or something. Surely these are my much-anticipated truce flowers from William.