the dog walker
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The Dog Walker
Diana Altman
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THE DOG WALKER
Diana Altman
There comes a time in an adventurous young womans life when her age
makes her wince. Shes too old for where she is. She thought marriage would blow
her way, inevitable as milkweed silk but she finds herself among the unchosen
though men on the street follow her with their eyes then touch the top of their
zippers to be sure theyre all the way up. She peers into every passing pram, melts
at the sight of smocking in baby shop windows. She sleeps with her cat. Lying
awake at night eyes wide open in the dark she wonders ifshell be one of the barren,
one of the buds that never flower. Could Fate be so cruel? How do the other young
women do it? How do they get those rings on their fingers? How can they stand
those men they married? Some of her friends embarrass her the way they are with
their husbands. They seem diminished, tarnished, overly accommodating. Some of
them actually wash their husbands clothes, including underpants.
Now, seeing my own adventurous daughter slogging through this mire of self-
doubt, kissing her cat too much, Im reminded of myself so long ago when Love was
marching toward me but hadnt yet arrived.
My college classmates married immediately after graduation but six years
later I was hitchhiking around Great Britain with another unmarried school
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teacher. The summer vacations were the reason I became a teacher. Id been to
Easter Island, Chile, Peru, Bolivia, Greece, Turkey, and Europe.
After exploring Devon and Cornwall then paying homage to Wordsworth in
the Lake District, my friend and I returned to London. It was late August and time
to go home. She packed but Ijust couldnt. Everything inside had come to a halt.
Period. Thats it. No more. I was like a creature that molts feathers or sheds
outgrown skin. I was in the grip of something. So I sold my airline ticket home,
wrote a letter of resignation to the principal of the school where I taught English,
and sent a letter to my boyfriend in Boston telling him that I intended to stay in
London. Before boarding her flight, my friend promised to sublet my apartment in
Harvard Square and tend to my cat. Then she was gone.
I found a rented room in a flat owned by Mrs. Webb, a twinkly old woman
whose mouth was on the side of her face. A stroke? In her ornate living room there
were bulbous sofas and armchairs, burgundy brocade wallpaper, velvet drapery
decorated with gold tassels. Oil paintings in frilly gold frames hung salon style up to
the ceiling. She must have once lived in a grand house.
The room she was renting had the leftovers, a lop-sided bureau, a single bed
with tall bedposts that probably once held a canopy and a rickety ladys desk. On
one wall was a large oil painting of a dreamy young woman with plump white arms
looking to heaven while holding a lyre and a scroll. A label on the frame read, The
Muse. Every morning when I sat down to write, I greeted the Muse and asked for
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her help and appreciated the pitcher of water left for me by Mrs. Webb who took
seriously what I was trying to do.
At home in Cambridge if I announced that I wanted to quit teaching and
become a writer the response would be, You and everyone else. Or that clich
sneer, What are you going to do, write the great American novel? It was a relief to
be in London where entire rooms at the Tate Gallery were devoted to portraits of
authors. I could take this chance, quit my job, because my father had died and left
me enough money to live modestly.
I knew nothing about freelancing. I didnt know you were supposed to query
editors to ask if they wanted the piece. I thought you wrote whatever you wanted
then tried to sell it. So I gave myself an assignment. I would write about the
International Sheep Dog Trials to be held in Scotland. For three days I watched
shepherds, reticent, soft-spoken men ruddy and wrinkled from sun and wind, send
their Border Collies into a field to herd sheep through gates and into pens. The
Duchess of Gloucester, a frail old woman, arrived in a black limousine and I was
escorted into her tent and introduced as an American journalist. We had an
excruciating few minutes together, not knowing what to say, she twirling her
wedding band round and round as my grandmother did when she was nervous; then
I was ushered out of her tent. I sat on wet benches in the drizzle and watched the
champion dogs drop to their bellies and paralyze the sheep with a beam from their
eyes, then release the sheep by looking away.
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I was surprised to discover that I had nothing much to say about the
International Sheep Dog Trials. What was I thinking? Why did I imagine it would
be interesting? But real journalists have to write all the time about things that
dont interest them. So I hunkered down and wrote it this way and that way, the
basket next to my desk filling with crumpled paper. I wrote in my journal, answered
letters from friends, from my sister, from Grandma in Chicago. I sent letters to my
mother at various American Express offices as she traveled around the world. I
wrote to my boyfriend Martin but he did not reply.
Morning confinement done, almost wild with restlessness, I escaped to the
shops on the Kings Road where there were racks of granny skirts, bell bottom pant
suits, velvet jackets for men, and the music that surrounded me while I looked was
Bridge Over TroubledWaters, Let it Be, and Brown Eyed Girl.
Mrs. Webb made some suggestions, said I should describe the Duchess of
Gloucester as elderly rather than old. It was gratifying to see her laugh at the funny
parts. I sent the piece to the National Geographic.
Summer faded into autumn. I walked in Kensington Gardens, went to the
Tate to greet the William Blake paintings, visited the local music school library
where I took out Beethoven quartets and listened to them in a booth with earphones
on. I went to the movies, sat in the dark smoking Kents and tapping the ash in the
metal cup attached to the seat in front of me. I did not miss Harvard Square and I
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didnt really miss my friends but sometimes there was an ache in my chest from
homesickness.
I phoned a friend of mine from home who was now living in London. I had
counted on Howies companionship once I was settled in. He was my classmate at
graduate school, sat next to me in a class about operant conditioning. He made fun
of the subject by handing me a chocolate milk dud every time I took a note. Hed
been fired from the high school where he taught because he couldnt control the
class and had been traveling around the world for the last year.
In an Indian restaurant, listlessly chewing Malai Kofta, he told me about his
search for a doctor who could diagnose the cause of the depression that had
immobilized him for the last several months. Shes the only one, he said staring
too long at the basket of Chapatis, who said, Drugs? I said yes in Katmandu. Hash.
She said maybe it will wear off and maybe it wont. We became silent at the horror
of this possibility, the life-long regret. Does it show?
Not really, I lied noticing the white foam at the edges of his mouth from
tranquilizers. Maybe a little sleepy.
Would you mind if I went home now?
No, Howie. Not at all.
Did you notice myshirt?
Yes. I like the bead work.
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See you next week? he asked taking much too long to stand up.
Sure. See you here next week. Lets try the curry next time. So I sat there
by myself sopping up sauce with rice then took the tube back to South Kensington
while chewing on some breath-freshening seeds scooped from a brass dish by the
entrance door.
The editor of the National Geographicwrote that he had just published a
piece about sheep dogs but thanks anyway. Please try again. I wondered what I
might do to earn some money while still guarding the mornings for writing. Dog
walking seemed a good idea. I tacked up posters and a woman with a shaky voice
phoned. She said that she couldnt afford the price on the poster. She was on the
dole. Her feet hurt and her dog hadnt been out in a fortnight. Would I lower the
fee?
Her name was not next to any of the buzzers in the lobby of her building. I
stood perplexed on the sidewalk until I noticed stairs going down from the sidewalk
to a basement corridor lit by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. At the far
end was a door. No bell, no knocker. I rapped with my fist which set off furious
barking. Then silence. I rapped again. Now the dog threw itself against the door,
whamp! I checked my watch. We had agreed on one oclock. I banged on the door as
if it was a kettle drum and the dog went wild barking and throwing itself against
the door. Then silence. Just as I turned to leave I heard the metallic jiggling of the
chain bolt. The door opened a crack. Whos there?
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Its the dog walker.
Her response took as long as it might if my words were written and she had
to get her purse and fish out her glasses. At last she said, Easy lad, and opened
the door a crack. I squeezed through and she shut it fast and I found myself in the
pitch dark surrounded by unpleasant smells. I was trapped. The dog leaped up on
me again and again while I readjusted my balance and willed myself to stay calm.
Maybe this woman was blind and did not know it was dark. Is there a light in
here?
Her rusty voice said, Next to the door.
I felt along the wall and flicked the switch. I saw a brown mutt and an old
hag in a bathrobe with gray hair sticking up out of her head like sun rays. Her legs
were wrapped in bandages from the knees down and arthritis had twisted her
hands. Rags were wrapped around her feet instead of shoes. She squinted up at me
like a nocturnal creature called out at noon.
Newspapers yellow with age were piled in stacks as high as my waist. Some
newspapers had been spread on the floor and were stained yellow and had dried dog
poop on them. Empty jars and tin cans were strewn about. There were no windows.
Cobwebs hung in strands from the dingy pipes on the ceiling. Tufting oozed out of
holes in an upholstered armchair. A cot in the corner was a jumble of dirty blankets.
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The dog was so excited it turned itself in circles and smacked its own face
with its wagging tail. Whats his name? I asked trying to keep my expression
bland as if nothing here was surprising.
She kept peering up at me as if trying to figure out how all of a sudden a
person was in her home. Then she said, Rupert, rolling the r in a musical,
Scottish way. Rupert was a poets name, a literary name, a name so romantic and
large it seemed to vibrate and I stood hushed as if dropped into a fairy tale. To
shake off the spell I spoke. He looks like a Border Collie. The only resemblance
was his alert face and feathery tail.
Aye, that he does, she said looking at me with a bit more trust. Hes a cross
between a Labrador and a retriever.
She shuffled toward a table heaped with clutter to get a collar and leash. She
touched her feet to the floor in a tentative way because they hurt. Her hands were
so twisted and Ruperts leaps were so elastic she couldnt get the collar on him.
Rupert was acting as if hed just won the sweepstakes. Would I be calling attention
to her infirmity if I offered to do the collar for her? On the other hand, this was
taking too long so I held my hand out softly and she gave me the collar. Rupert was
made out of lightening bolts but I got him buckled, at last. When Miss Gruffin
opened the door, she said, Now dont knock the lady over, Rupert.
Rupert charged down the corridor, up the basement stairs, out into the bright
day. He paused to blink then galloped off pulling me behind him, my leash arm
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straight out. We darted between pedestrians on the sidewalk all minding their own
business until they had to step out of the way fast. I yanked but it made no
difference. I was on a runaway horse. Up ahead was a little girl looking in a store
window. Rupert charged toward her with a ferocious roar. I yanked and yanked as
the girls mother stood rooted in astonishment then scooped the child up. Rupert
lunged again, the child screamed, the mothers eyes widened at me but there was no
time to apologize. We tornadoed toward another child who screamed as Rupert
barked into his face. Pedestrians turned to stare. On we went toward a dog heeling
politely next to its owner. Rupert shrieked at the dog, the dog snarled, the owner
kept saying, I say, I say, as I disentangled our leashes. I was bombarded by the
scorn of strangers.
Suddenly, Rupert dropped to his belly and shot his eyebeam at a fire hydrant.
He crept closer paralyzing it with his gaze. I was torn between laughing at him and
feeling sorry for him. Here was a dog eager to work but living in a basement like a
prisoner. My heart went out to him. Rupert, thats not a sheep. You cant herd that
thing. He slunk over to it, sniffed, then peed on it.
Off we raced gaining on a stylish young woman with an Afghan hound
prancing at her heel. The dogs silky hair swayed like palm fronds next to her high
heeled boots. I was in jeans and a black tee shirt, no make up, hair pulled back
carelessly in a ponytail that had come loose. I imagined the attack, the scramble,
the humiliation. But instead of attacking when we got close Rupert dropped to his
belly and crept along fixing the dog with his eye. I tried to yank him up but he just
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kept sneaking along lifting each foot slowly. Feeling as if someone was following
her, the young woman checked over her shoulder and saw Rupert slinking behind
her. She was about my age. Surely she would see the humor in Ruperts breeding
coming out all wrong like this. But when her eyes met mine they overflowed with
contempt. What was I doing to myself? Why couldnt I be like her, settled, married,
prosperous? She got rid of us by ducking into a store.
Was Rupert a good lad then? Miss Gruffin had dressed up for me in a blue,
wrinkled dress and the light was on.
Well, hes sort of strong.
Aye, she said. Hes always been a good healthy pup. Rupert slapped her
bandaged leg with his wagging tail. Isit an American lass you are then?
We examined each other for a brief, shy second. Yes. I wasnt sure how I felt
about being befriended by this person.
So far from home?
Yes. I guess I am.
When she snapped open her coin purse time took on a suspended, silvery
quality. Here was a test. Could I take money from someone on welfare? If I didnt
accept her coins shed know her life seemed squalid. And how could she depend
upon her dog being walked if she did not pay for it? Its four shillings, I said,
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reminding her of the amount wed agreed upon on the phone. Miss Gruffin placed
the coins in my hand and it felt like a kiss.
At one oclock the next day I didnt have to wait at the door. It opened right
away, the light was on, Miss Gruffin was in her dress and Rupert leaped up on me
again and again then spun around in tight circles whining with joy. I snapped on
his collar and we bounded down the corridor, up the stairs and out onto the street.
He stopped long enough to leave a steaming pile at the entrance of a store and I
pretended not to notice as he dragged me away. He barked at all the children and
all the dogs so I steered him to the park where he raced along so fast my arm ached.
And how was the lad today? Miss Gruffin asked.
I felt like saying he ought to be put down. Theres no amount of money you
could give me to make this worth it. But I said, Well, hes pretty strong.
Aye. He comes from good stock. Before she set her coins in my palm she
said, And are you all alone so far away from your home? She was small, almost a
gnome and everything about her could be seen as frayed, disheveled, in need of
repair, except the look in her eyes and that was steady and deep and fearless. Here
was one of those instances where one soul was extending its hand to another and all
the trappings were irrelevant. This had happened to me before but only in the
realm of age, once with a friends old mother and a few times with small children
who talked to me person to person and when we laughed I thought, look at this, Im
laughing my head off with someone whos nine. Yes. I came here with my friend
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but she went home to Boston. We were only supposed to stay for the summer but I
just couldnt go back.
She did not understand that I was talking about something internal. Aye,
tis lovely here in London.
Are you from here?
I grew tired of living in the country, she said. My sister, now shes still
there in her house in Argyleshire.
I was just inArgyleshire. I went to the International Sheep Dog Trials.
My sister, now shes house proud. Im not house proud.
This apology went right to my heart so all that came out was, Oh. Okay. See
you tomorrow. Bye Rupert. He smiled but didnt come toward me, stood next to
Miss Gruffin as the host at a party might stand next to the hostess, wagged his tail
once like the goodbye wave of a human hand, and I went out confused. Wait a
minute. Were these my new friends? Had it come to this?
Every day I went to Miss Gruffin, took Rupert out, and ran along after him
yanking on his impervious neck when he lunged at another dog. Every day my
shoulder ached and I wondered why I was bothering with this ridiculous job that
paid me about a dollar a week. One day my patience snapped and I let him off the
leash rehearsing an apology to Miss Gruffin, Im so sorry but Rupert ran away. I
never should have let him off the leash. Rupert stood there as if amazed while I sat
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on a bench and opened Daniel Deronda. Rupert began to run in wide circles around
my bench, ran so fast his ears flattened, around and around like an out-of-control
merry-go-round then he bounded away and I wouldnt have cared except he was
heading straight for a little mop of a dog in the distance, also not on a leash. I
leaped from the bench and ran toward the owner who was about to find herself with
a pile of bloody white fur. Rupert braked in front of the little dog. They sniffed each
other and then bounced up and down together. The owner and I exchanged a fond
smile as if these were our children. I went back to the bench and continued to read.
When the hour was up I called Rupert and in an instant he was there in front of me.
He sat there smiling as I snapped on his leash. Rupert, I said and for the first
time I caressed him. You were lonely. You were just lonely.
Rupert became calmer, no longer hauled me up the basement stairs. We
walked briskly to the park where he was popular. He met the same friends every
day, played chasing games with them. I sat on a bench reading like a nursemaid
and when the hour was over Rupert returned without my having to call him as if he
was wearing a watch. Sometimes I leaned forward and put my hands on his
shoulders and we remained cheek to cheek while I imbibed his trigger-happy,
cheerful personality. How Miss Gruffin kept him so clean, I have no idea. I bought a
dog brush and sometimes, after his romp was finished, he let me groom him and he
seemed to like the feeling of the brush and the smoothing of my hand.
One day someone else phoned about dog walking and invited me to meet
Treacle, a tri-colored Sheltie. I examined the buzzers in the lobby of a dressy
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on in a downstairs room. Then a light came on upstairs in another house. More
lights came on. Those illuminated windows gave each house a picturesque coziness.
I was filled with longing. I envied the people behind those windows, wondered how
they managed to get all that domestic bliss for themselves. This was a moment to
mark. Drunks are warned by DTs, but I had this moment of walking on the
sidewalk with a strange dog at dusk as lights came on in the houses and knew Id
let things go too far.
When I returned Treacle, his owner paid me the correct amount then fished
in her purse for a tip. No! I said. Couldnt she see that I wasnt really a dog
walker? Couldnt she see my grandmother saying, Tips? Take tips? horrified when
I announced my intention to work as a waitress one summer. My grandmother, who
lived in a penthouse in Chicago, said tips as if it meant sewage. Treacles owner
held the coins toward me in an insistent way so I took them and slunk back to Mrs.
Webbs where I sat on the sofa in her living room turning the pages of her theater
scrapbook examining press clippings from the days when she was a set designer. As
if she could read my mind she said, My dear. Why not tell them that youre a
writer, that you take walks anyway?
I phoned Martin and reversed the charges so they wouldnt show up on Mrs.
Webbs bill. When I heard him say, Hello? my heart jumped and when the
overseas operator asked if he would accept the charges from me there was a long
silence and I knew he wasnt debating about paying for the call but was recovering
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from surprise. His Yes was tentative, suspicious. I have your party on the line,
the operator said to me, go ahead please.
Martin?
I thought he couldnt hear me way over there across the ocean because it took
so long for him to reply. Im surprised.
Why?
Why? You left.
I know.
Are you ever coming home?
I dont know.
Do you need anything? Money?
No.
What are you living on?
Savings.
But it doesnt make any sense to use up your savings. And you quit your job.
What are you going to do when you come back? Theyre not going to re-hire you
after leaving them in the lurch.
I dont want them to re-hire me.
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Yougave no warning.
I know. Did you talk to Nancy?
She said she sublet your apartment. There was another long silence. I
dont understand you.
Me either.
I can appreciate that you have some things youre working out. I can
appreciate that. But what about your childrens book? That editor at Houghton
Mifflin said she wanted to see it. I thought you were going to send it to her. Can you
just leave a project like that in the middle? I dont understand.
I cant explain, Martin.
You left me.
I know.
Its lonely. I might as well be sleeping at the lab.
I dont think George would be too happy about that.Hed have to share his
cot with you.
Not his lab.
Nothis lab? Whose lab? He didnt reply. You mean got the grant? The
Kripke Foundation grant?
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More than I asked for.
Are you kidding? Martin! Thats fabulous! More than you asked for? I cant
believe it!
Enough to hire an assistant.
Oh my God, Martin! I cant believe it! This is too wonderful! When did you
hear?
A couple of weeks ago.
That is too wonderful. Your own lab. And what happened with the
symposium?
Im speaking.
They accepted your paper?
Featured speaker.
Martin! Featured speaker! That is great! Holy mackerel. And what about the
New England Journal of Medicine paper?
Accepted. March issue.
Oh my God. Martin this is great. Has Harvard weighed in?
No, but they will. They cant refuse me the professorship if I get the
MacArthur.We sat in silence for a minute. You sound good. Have you worked out
what you needed to work out?
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I dont know.
Its not like you couldnt write here. You wrote all the time here.
Martin, my life doesnt bear scrutiny.
He laughed. Join the club.
You sound like youre in the next room.
You too.
This is costing you a fortune.
I know.
We should probably hang up.
Just tell me what I should expect. Are you going to come home?
Yes.
When?
Soon.
I have to eat by myself all the time.
You arent taking out anyone else?
No one who matters. I have to eat anyway.I had forgotten that Martins
idea of courting was taking a woman to a restaurant which wasnt a waste of time
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since he had to eat anyway. Why are you up at one in the morning? This, too, was
Martinish, to know the time difference. Are you having trouble sleeping?
Sometimes.
Drinking a lot of coffee?
Not too much.
Smoking?
Some.
Heres my prescription. Get an airline ticket and come home.
The next day I was lighthearted and decided that Id embrace the vocation of
dog walking and turn it into a money maker. I would walk several dogs at once and
make each hour profitable. First I would combine Treacle and Rupert for increased
efficiency and then Id advertise for new clients.
I changed Ruperts appointment to a later hour and went to pick up Treacle
with Rupert trotting by my side. I attached Ruperts leash to the leg of a table in the
lobby, took the elevator up, got Treacle and came down. Until I saw the hair rise up
on both those dogs, until I heard the guttural threat of those growls, until I saw
those lips turned backwards and those fangs exposed, I didnt really know what
beast means. All those lessons in heeling, in sitting, staying, waiting for the kibble,
all of that fell from Treacle as he lunged at Rupert yanking the leash out of my
hand and Rupert, tied to the table, could not get away. He shrieked in surprise and
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fury as Treacle snapped at him with his fangs. The sound was huge, terrifying, an
eruption of pure violence. Heart in my throat, I rushed into the fray, grabbed
Treacles leash and hauled him away into the elevator and told his owner Id be
back later, didnt wait to hear her response, ran to the elevator, pushed the button,
ran to Rupert whose breath was coming so fast it squeaked. I unknotted his leash.
He would not look at me. We walked outside. Anyone who has lived with cats knows
that animals turn their backs on you. Rupert had his back turned though he was
next to me. Im sorry, I said down to him. I didnt know that dog was like that.
We walked in icy silence. Rupert, I said. He would not look at me. You dont think
I like that dog better than you, do you? He peeked at me from the edge of his eye. I
dont like that dog, Rupert. I dont even know that dog. I could never like him better
than you. Rupert turned his head slightly and peeked at me again. I like you
much better. A million times better. He stopped and looked at me from the top of
his eyes. A million times better. He gave his tail one thump. Oh, Rupert, I said
and bent down and we had a long hug before we went to the park.
I took off his leash and he dashed away to find his friends but the hour was
different. He raced back as if to ask me where his friends were, raced away, came
back. There were no other dogs. Not one. Rupert continued searching then came to
where I was sitting and sat down in front of me. Like a wolf he raised his chin to the
December sky, made his mouth into an o and howled with grief. It was the loneliest
sound Id ever heard. He did it again and I knew that it was not healthy for me to
understand that sound so thoroughly.
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Im thinking maybe it might be time for me to go home, I said to Miss
Gruffin.
Aye, Lass.Youll be leaving then?
I bought an airline ticket to Boston, disengaged from walking Treacle, and
two weeks later had my last walk with Rupert. He seemed to know my plans
because when I bent down to take off his collar he grabbed me around the waist and
began humping me. I let him do that for a while, express himself in that masculine
way, then I said goodbye.
The day before I departed I was walking on the Fulham Road and saw Miss
Gruffin shuffling along carrying a bag of groceries. To strangers she was just
another bag lady wrapped in filthy shawls, soot in the crevices of her wrinkles, a
moth-eaten scarf tied around her head, the kind of underground person made
picturesque by Dickens. Rags were wrapped around her feet and I wondered what
she was going to do now that I couldnt help her with Rupert. Miss Gruffin? I said.
Should we have a cup of tea?Will you be my guest?
We sat together at a table in one of the nearby restaurants, the waiters
hovering in case I needed help getting away. I felt proud to be sitting in public with
Miss Gruffin, superior in my understanding that all is not as it appears. It was
rebellious to bring her among the well-heeled patrons of that place who tried not to
stare. Perhaps my mind had become more open and I wondered if this would stick
when I returned to Harvard Square. We sipped our tea, lit up a cigarette, and sat
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there in silence while I wondered if Id made a mistake. What could we possibly talk
about? What was I thinking? Every day, Lass, at one oclock he goes to the door
and waits for you. Exactly at one oclock.
I could imagine him there waiting, turning to look at her, waiting some
more, going to the table where she kept his collar, going back to the door, sitting
there listening for my footsteps.
Sits there facing the door.
I sighed so shed know I was sorry but in truth I didnt miss him or her
either. I wanted to go home. I was done with it here. I was in the habit now of
writing every morning and Id continue at home, work on the novel Id started, send
my childrens book around to publishers. I wanted to go home to Martin and my
apartment and my cat and my friends and Cambridge where I knew every street
and my landlady who said I was like a daughter to her as an excuse for never fixing
anything. Rupert can tell time, I said.
Aye.
Do you know how I know that? A waiter came to the table and stood there
poised to take away Miss Guffins tea cup. Were not finished yet, I said and he
backed off. I know because I let him off the leash. I shouldnt have done that, but I
did. I let him off and he ran around the park and played with other dogs and exactly
when it was time to go home he came back to me and sat right in front of me so I
could hook on his leash.
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Aye. Hes full of brains.
I could write to you.
She either didnt hear me or was pretending she didnt. After a while she
said, In a raid do not rush, take cover quietly, then others will do the same. If we
see a light we shout Put that light out! Or Cover that window!
Were you hurt during the blitz? I asked.
Aye. I became tired. We sipped tea and took bites of some sugar cookies that
came along with the tea. She said nothing more, just sank down into herself and I
wondered if Id have trouble getting her out of there. We finished the tea and the
second we got up the waiters swooped down to clear away.
Ill write to you, I said when we reached her corner. Would you like to
have the rest of these cigarettes? I dont think Im going to smoke any more of
them. When I handed her the pack she put it in her grocery bag and shuffled away
without looking back even though I stood there on the crowded sidewalk waiting to
wave goodbye.
In the ladies room at Logan Airport in Boston, I tried to make myself
presentable for Martin who said he would meet me at baggage claim. I took off stale
traveling clothes and changed into one of my new outfits. I brushed my teeth, pulled
my hair back into a ponytail, leaned in close to the mirror to draw on eye liner, used
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lipstick for the first time in months, squirted a spray of perfume toward the ceiling
and stood under it so the drops could shower down on me.
I searched in the crowd at baggage claim, checked my watch, searched again.
No matter, my bag hadnt arrived yet. Then the bags did come out and none of them
were mine and then one of them was mine so I yanked it off the carousel and stood
there waiting. People arrived, found their passengers and departed pushing luggage
carts. A half hour later I was the only one standing next to an empty carousel.
Maybe he was stuck in traffic. It took me an hour to realize he wasnt coming to get
me. Some emergency must have kept him at the hospital.
I took a cab to his apartment, went up in the elevator up, rang his bell, and
there he was in his chinos, loafers, and blue oxford shirt, a handsome, serious man
with slightly rounded shoulders and a gaze that was sexually modest. Id
interrupted him. His dining table was cluttered with pens, papers and open books.
I thought you were going to meet me, I said. I waited there like an idiot. He said
nothing. You said you would meet me. You said it. I didnt say it. You said it. My
stomach began to roil and my heart sank as I thought, why did I come back? How
typical of Martin to provoke me this way. Do you want me to be here or not? I said.
I saw that familiar flick of satisfaction in his eyes when my voice became
challenging.
He stepped back to make room for me to pass into his apartment. Now I
remembered how much I did not like his bland apartment, everything chosen by a
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decorator so as not to offend, nothing that revealed anything about Martin except
the large television and the wall of stereo components with speakers so much better
than mine. We stood looking at each other. You have to give me time, he said. I
put down my suitcase and walked toward him and we had a long hug. My body was
used to his body, the way we fit together, his smell, a distant whiff of Dial soap.
Do you want me to stay here or not?
The phone rang and he went into his bedroom to answer. I sank down on the
sofa and strained to hear his conversation. It was a woman and he was making
arrangements with her, deciding on a time and restaurant. When he returned to the
living room I said, Martin, youre the one who suggested I stay here. I told you the
person subletting my apartment cant be out until Tuesday and you said to stay
here. You said it. I didnt say it.
I cant handle this right now, he said.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with anger and I flew at him with my fists. He
shrank back trying to get rid of me and I hit him again and again in a blind rage,
out of mind, until he managed to grab my hands and push me back and then I came
to and stood there dazed as if coming up from a seizure, my breath coming in deep,
shaky trembles. That shows you love me, he said and he took me in his arms and I
stayed there that night listening to Brahms with his expensive earphones clamped
on while he worked on his paper and when I woke up he was already gone to the
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hospital and I wasnt sure what to do, whether I should stay with him for two more
nights or stay with a girlfriend and I chose him.
Back in my own apartment, reunited with my cat, able to listen full blast to
my own records, I worked on a novel and sent stories off to various literary
magazines. On week nights I saw my friends all the while wondering about flying at
Martin that way. It seemed to have bothered me more than it did him. It seemed
like the worst moment of my life, being out of my mind like that.
Youre always so impressedby people, my friend Joe said to me one night as
we passed a joint back and forth and watched the sky turn rosy with dawn while
sitting on my back porch. Why are you always so impressed.
Arent you impressed by people?
No, he said. Its the relationship that matters. I thought he was saying
this because he wanted me to break up with Martin and be his girlfriend. But how
could I be his girlfriend? He was a poet who lost every job. He didnt know how to
drive a car but managed to get hold of one and showed up to take me for a drive
that began by backing hard into the car behind us. He drank too much and when we
went to bookstores he slipped a book into the pocket of his greatcoat. Yet I loved
being with him. I had never stayed up late talking to Martin, seldom laughed with
him, never admired the way he danced, certainly never wrote stories me doing one
paragraph him doing the next, never took walks in the snow, never called him up
crying because the heroine in the Mill on the Flossdied in the end. Friends were
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one thing, husbands quite another. I never mixed Martin in with my friends. Martin
made them all seem silly. They thought they had potential and imagined that one
day they would get tired of sitting at the cafes in Harvard Square and they would
write that novel or that piece of music or that book of poems. Martin was actually
saving people. He cared for nothing but his work and this seemed right to me. My
mother described him as a prize. I had heard all my life the wisdom passed from
Grandma to my mother: A man who only has you on his mind, doesnt have much
on his mind.
I found my old sketch pad and tried to draw my cat curled with her paw over
her face. The result was surprising because I used to know how to draw. Id let
myself become too rusty so I decided to take a night-time drawing class at the
Boston Museum School. Standing behind me in line to register was a curly haired
young man, a teddy bear person who made me laugh. When the class began we sat
next to each other. On a raised platform at the front of the room a model posed
naked. The teacher, a young woman with silky straight hair, told us to view the
female body as we might an eggplant, as shadows and shapes. I wondered what
kind of girl would take off her clothes and show absolutely everything to a room full
of strangers. The only sound in the room was charcoal scraping over paper. The
atmosphere was absolutely serious.
At the break I went downstairs to the store to buy an eraser. I was still
worried about my fight with Martin, how savage Id been. I paid for the eraser and
walked down the corridor to the classroom. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Martin
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always made me angry, always made me jealous, and always disappointed me. This,
I suddenly knew, was how I felt as a child. I was always jealous of my sister, always
disappointed by my father, and always furious at my mother. I was in the habit of
being angry, jealous, and disappointed. It was a habit and thats why Martin felt
like home. It was a habit like nail biting and I could choose not to have it. I could
choose to stop it. This insight was so blinding that if I was a bible-believing person
Id say I had a visitation. These words formed in my head, I will only be with men
who make me happy. Up until this second I thought that if I could only be different
I could be happy. But now it was clear. The different I had to be was that I had to be
a person who avoids people who made them unhappy. Being single was not the
worst thing. I would be single for the rest of my life rather than continue in the
habit of being with people who upset me. When I got home that night I phoned
Martin and said we were finished. He called the next day to ask if I felt better and I
repeated my decision. It was over.
The third week of drawing class the teacher went from desk to desk offering
advice. The teacher said I should fill up the whole page, use bigger gestures. What
she said seemed profound, a metaphor for having the nerve to fill up my life. I sat
there thinking about my pinched little drawing, how it would take courage to draw
larger. In an absent way I watched the teacher as she moved from desk to desk. On
the other side of the room was a young man who was so tall his legs leaked out in
the aisle. When the teacher leaned down to examine his drawing her hair swung
around and I was stabbed with jealousy. It was as if a dagger went into my heart. I
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thought, Get away from him! How dare you take advantage of your position as
teacher to flirt with him. Get away. How odd! Id never seen that man before.
At the break, when people were out of the classroom, I pretended to be
interested in everyones drawing but really wanted to see his. His was the best. The
figure filled the page, the lines clear and confident. Hed drawn the nipples in an
unusual way. They were little structures. His page was bursting with personality. I
went out into the hall. His walk was graceful, undulating. His hair was shiny and
clean, sandy-colored, parted on one side and hanging over one eye. He smiled down
at me and said, Hello.
I said, Do you see the model as shapes?
He said, I try to.
Why was I smiling so much? I couldnt stop smiling.I said, I just see her as
an exhibitionist.Youre a good drawer.
Thank you.
Are you an artist?
Yes, he said. He kept looking at me and looking at me. What do you do?
Im a writer.
Ever have anything published?
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No, I said. Boo hoo, and I put my forehead on his chest. I touched my
forehead to the chest of a complete stranger and got a whiff of him that made my
knees weak. Then I had to step back and be embarrassed.
Later, when we reviewed our first impressions, rubbing the moments over
and over to bring out the shine, he said that when he saw me across the room
laughing with the teddy bear man he thought, Why are you wasting your time with
him? Hes not for you.
Diana Altman