Faithful Read online

  Shelby’s favorite sweatshirt is red, like Riding Hood’s cape. She finds herself thinking about wolves and how they’ve always been hunted, caught in traps and hung upside down on ropes, blood dripping from their mouths and noses. She often dreams she’s running through the grass in the dark and something is following her. She’s too afraid to turn around in her dreams and see what’s behind her. When she wakes, she’s drenched in sweat. She gets out of bed, then climbs out the window so she can be alone on the fire escape while Ben sleeps. She gazes upward as the sky turns pink. If she’s not careful she may cry thinking about wolves and accidents and ice. She wants to think that Helene is watching the same pink sky through her bedroom window, that she weeps for the beauty of the world, even though she knows that Helene no longer has the ocular ability to shed tears.

  On the day when she’s ducking the rainstorm in Union Square, Shelby hears a slight huffing and puffing. She thinks of ogres under a bridge, of the werewolves she and Helene used to imagine were lurking in the woods. Shelby glances beside her to see not a monster but a homeless person. He’s a kid, with a blanket tossed over him to protect him against the rain even though it must be broiling under a woolen blanket. His belongings are stored in garbage bags balanced on a rolling wooden platform. Atop the platform are two dogs. One is asleep; the other is the thing that’s huffing and puffing.

  The kid rises out of his stupor. “What are you looking at?” he growls.

  The kid seems older when he speaks. He has a cut on his lip that looks infected. Shelby glances away. She’s always on the lookout for ghosts, but this guy is definitely real. Shelby feels guilty eating her cheese and crackers. She puts the package on the sidewalk.

  “Are you going to eat that?” the homeless guy says.

  Shelby slides the cheese over, and the kid, or whatever he is, eats her lunch.

  “What about the dogs?” Shelby asks. “They’re probably hungry.”

  The kid throws her a look, and after considering he tosses the huffing and puffing dog half a cracker. “Dogs in America are too fat. Don’t think I’m starving them, because I’m not. Why would I do that? Everyone loves dogs.”

  “What are their names?”

  The kid shrugs. “Dog,” he says of the filthy, white, huffing and puffing one. “That one’s Puppy,” he says of the sleeping one. The second dog’s eyes don’t even flicker. For a moment he seems dead.

  “Is he sick?”

  “The secret is Benadryl. Quiets them down. People want to give you more when you’ve got two dogs depending on you.”

  “You do that?” Shelby is distressed by this news. She has realized the kid thinks she’s homeless too. Maybe it’s her wardrobe, the holes in her boots, the old sweatshirt. “What are their real names?” she asks. When he doesn’t answer, she presses on. “Seriously.”

  The kid glares at her. “I already told you!”

  Shelby has broken her own rule. She never speaks to people she knows, let alone strangers. It’s time for her to get back to work, yet she feels she won’t make it through the day. She gets out what’s left of the joint she began that morning. She takes a few hits before passing it to the homeless guy. He smokes greedily, and although he doesn’t say thank you, he does give her a piece of advice. “You can rent them, you know. Twenty bucks for four hours. It’s a good deal.” Shelby looks at him blankly, not understanding his meaning, so he adds, “The dogs.”

  “Rent them from you?”

  “Are you nuts? If they were my dogs wouldn’t I know their names?”

  The animals are so filthy Shelby wonders if she might get fleas merely by being in the same vicinity. The sleeping one is a Lhasa apso–like thing, and the other is a French bulldog. It has a furrowed expression, as if it was considering something of major importance that is far beyond human scope. They both make Shelby feel itchy.

  “Maybe some other time,” she tells the kid.

  She returns to the pet store to stack twenty-pound bags of cat food. She’s amazed anyone in New York City needs that much cat food. How many cats can fit into one apartment? Seven? Eight? Twenty? When she leaves work at the end of the day, the rain is over and the sidewalk is steaming. She spies the dogs and the platform cart, but as she crosses the park and gets closer, she notices the person they’re with is different. Now it’s an older man with long braids. He has a sign—Money for Dog Food—and a basket filled with dollar bills.

  The heat gets worse. That night Shelby and Ben wrap themselves in wet sheets and sit on the fire escape. Neither wants dinner.

  “We’re in togas,” Ben says cheerfully. “Amor in aeternum.”

  He’s been studying Latin, which he says is important for anyone working in pharmaceuticals. Unfortunately Shelby has glanced through his textbook and therefore knows he’s talking about love. More and more he thinks she’s someone she’s not. They have tangerines and water instead of dinner. It’s too hot for food. The street looks beautiful when the neon lights of the bar across the street are switched on, as if blue bath oil has been poured over everything. Colors drip over the black street. Shelby is grateful for every horn that honks; the noise takes up space in her head. Emptiness is dangerous. When it’s quiet she starts to hear Helene’s voice. She used to just catch a glimpse of her in the basement, now she hears her whispering. Why didn’t you save me? When she looks in mirrors and windows, her friend surfaces in the glass, her hands out, wearing the blue dress she never got to wear to the prom. Every day, every minute, Helene is with her.

  In bed Ben takes it a step farther and actually tells her he’s in love with her. This time it’s in English, not Latin, so she can’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “Ben,” she says. “Love is a false construct. It’s how people convince themselves that life is worth living.”

  “I only know how I feel,” he tells her.

  When Shelby falls asleep, she dreams she’s in a big green field. A man is calling to her. Do something, he tells her. It’s the writer of the postcards. She fears he wants more from her than she’s able to do. Isn’t leaving home enough? She sees the person’s shadow, but not the man himself. The grass grows taller, and the whole world smells like mint. Shelby’s hair has grown back in her dream, long golden-brown hair, the way it used to be. There are black butterflies rising from the grass, one after another, until they fill the horizon.

  When Shelby wakes she finds herself wishing she were still inside her dream. It takes all her energy to get out of bed and make coffee. She opens the closet and sees that Ben has bought an ironing board that he crammed in beside the coats. He has taken to pressing his white shirts, secretly, while she’s asleep.

  On her way to work she stops at the park. There is the platform; there are the dogs. This time a girl is with them. She has tattoos on her face, blue lines and swirls. Shelby gazes at the sky and notices the clouds are white on one side, blue on the other. If you slit them open with a knife something strange would likely fall down. Snow in the summer, postcards with no postmark, advice from above. The floppy, sleeping dog is balanced on the shopping bags, and the bulldog is on the sidewalk; it looks more alert than the tattooed girl and, frankly, much smarter.

  The homeless girl senses someone near and opens her eyes. “I need money for dog food,” she announces. It’s as though she’s a robot with a single skill. She knows how to beg.

  Shelby slips one of Ben’s dollars into a hat. He gives her spending money every week, and though she feels guilty, she accepts his generosity.

  “What are the dogs’ names?” Shelby asks. It’s like a magic spell. If she knows their names she will be free of them.

  “Fuck you,” the girl says. “I don’t give out that kind of information for a dollar.”

  Stunned by the girl’s venom, Shelby takes off. She heads across the street to find her co-worker Maravelle waiting at the door of the pet store.

  “What the hell d
id you do that for?” Maravelle asks. They’ve never said more than two words to each other, so Shelby is taken aback. “I saw you give her money. Those dogs are just props. Do you think they see a lick of that money? I used to give them a dollar or two until I noticed they always had a different owner. Those people aren’t begging for dog food.”

  “I’m supposed to take advice from someone who works in a pet store?” Shelby remarks archly.

  “Honey, you work in a pet store,” Maravelle reminds her, her mouth twisted into a smirk. She’s a beautiful woman who’s not about to take crap from a bald girl who stacks dog food.

  Shelby feels shamed by her own rudeness. The truth is she likes Maravelle’s snappy attitude. “I wouldn’t work here if I had your voice.” Maravelle sings all day long, even when she’s ringing up people at the register. “Why don’t you get out of here and sing professionally? Be the next Mariah Carey.”

  “Because I have three children and I’m a realist. I know I’m not as good as Mariah.”

  “I think you’re good.” This may be the first compliment she’s given in years.

  “Not as good. That’s the thing. Don’t give those people any more money,” Maravelle warns. “They just drink and drug it away.”

  All the same, Shelby goes to the window to keep an eye on the girl with the dogs. The scene is so upsetting that she stays in the store at lunch in order to avoid them. She has a slice of the pizza her co-workers have delivered.

  “Well, what do you know! You actually consume food. Go on, E.T.,” Juan from the lizard department says to her. “Have two pieces if you want.”

  When Shelby leaves work she sees that the shift in the park has changed as well. Now the dogs are back with the kid Shelby first saw. Maravelle comes up beside Shelby, matching her stride. “You really think my voice is that good?”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah, well, what do you know? I’ll bet you’ve never even listened to Mariah Carey.”

  True enough. Shelby is more a fan of sad singer-songwriters. Her current favorite duo is called The Weepies. She loves The Decemberists. She prefers music about lost love, lost souls, and lost opportunities. But she does know a beautiful voice when she hears one. “I don’t ordinarily give out compliments,” Shelby assures her co-worker. “But you can sing.”

  Maravelle nods. “I’ve never heard you say a nice word to anyone. So I appreciate the comment.”

  Unless Shelby is completely crazy, the French bulldog is staring at her from across the street. “Don’t your kids want pets? If you gave those rats a good shampoo, they’d be cute. Your kids would love them.”

  “Do you know what my life is like? I’m a single mother with three kids. I don’t have time for that. If you’re so worried about those dogs, you take them.”

  Shelby makes a face. “I can’t take care of anything.”

  “Why don’t you try to do something?” Maravelle says.

  “What did you say?” Shelby feels a lump in her throat. She wonders if Helene is talking to her through other people, repeating the postcard messages she receives, whispering about her failures.

  “I said N-O. I do not want any pets. Not now and not ever. Although those things do look sad,” she says of the dogs.

  As they cross the street together, Shelby and Maravelle come up with a plan. They work well together, almost as if they’re friends. As decided, Shelby hangs back when Maravelle begins to sing in the middle of Union Square. Even though she’s used to hearing her at the pet shop, Shelby is amazed at the sheer power of her voice. Those beautiful birdsong trills are thrilling in the open air. A hush comes over the park, and people draw close, forming a crowd. Someone tosses some money down, and soon enough others follow suit. The homeless kid, annoyed that his space has been invaded, has started to shout. He sets off to harass his competition, declaring that he’ll have her arrested for disturbing the peace.

  This is the plan, to distract him so that Shelby can sneak over to the rolling platform. Once there she quickly unties the rope around the bulldog’s neck. He gazes at her, as though he’s been expecting her. “I’m doing something,” Shelby tells the dog. He doesn’t blink. The drugged-out, shaggy one startles when she picks him up. Something’s wrong with him; he can only open one eye, but he starts to doze again as soon as he’s in Shelby’s arms. He weighs next to nothing. “Let’s go,” Shelby says to the bulldog. She thinks of him as the smart one, and indeed, he follows without a leash, with a bowlegged but dignified gait.

  When Ben gets home from school, he drops his briefcase smack down on the floor and stares at the dogs on the couch. “Seriously?” he says. “Two of them? Where’d they come from? The ugly dog department?”

  Shelby has already ordered dinner delivered from Hunan Kitchen, making certain to choose all the dishes Ben likes most, including the spicy tofu that Shelby hates along with General Tso’s chicken, their shared favorite.

  “They were being tortured.” Shelby’s already bathed them in the kitchen sink, and the odor of wet dog permeates the apartment. In the morning she’ll use the allowance Ben gives her to buy leashes and collars and dog food. Tonight she feeds them white rice mixed with chicken, which they inhale.

  “Let me guess.” Ben accepts a plate of food and collapses on the couch next to the one-eyed dog. “One is Yin and the other is Yang? Or Heckle and Jeckle? Spock and Kirk?”

  “The one next to you is Blinkie. The other one is General Tso.” The names come to her then and there.

  “You named them without me?” Ben actually sounds hurt.

  “Well, if anything happens and we break up, they’d be my dogs.” Shelby doesn’t realize how cold this sounds until she sees Ben’s expression.

  “Is that your plan?” Ben puts down his plate, not noticing when Blinkie snags a piece of tofu. His sight is good enough to steal food.

  “Ben.” Shelby throws up her hands. “I don’t have a plan. Isn’t that obvious?”

  She surprises him that night in bed when she embraces him. She’s never the one to initiate sex, but she moves on top of him and begins to kiss him, so deeply it seems she loves him, and maybe she does, although what does love matter in a world where it’s so easy to hurt someone?

  All through the summer Shelby walks the dogs along the riverside before work. Since Ben asked her if she had a plan, she can’t stop thinking about the fact that she’s an aimless nothing. On the street people stay away from her because she still shaves her head and she wears her hoodie even when it’s ninety degrees. Clearly, she looks like someone who’s about to snap. But she’d already done that and all she got out of it was a stay in the hospital, where they told her to squeeze frozen oranges to bring her back to reality when she was having a panic attack. As if reality was what she wanted.

  Shelby writes to colleges, but she’s so conflicted she throws the catalogs into the trash as soon as they arrive. And then one day she leaves the dogs at home and walks up to Hunter College and signs up for two classes, Latin, because she figures then she’ll know what Ben is talking about, and Principles of Biology. Maybe a science class will help her make sense of the world. She tells Ben that she’ll be out on Tuesday and Thursday nights.

  “You do have a plan,” he says. “Does it include me?”

  Shelby feels bad for him and goes to sit on his lap.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Ben says.

  She kisses him as though her life depended on it, even though she knows it doesn’t. It depends on equal parts probability and luck. That’s why she keeps throwing the fortune cookies into the glass bowl. No one can predict what will happen. On the night of the accident Shelby fastened her seat belt, something she did only three times out of ten. Helene was perched on the edge of her seat, too excited over their rock-­throwing adventure to bother with her seat belt, which she fastened nine times out of ten. Whenever anyone says that people get what they deserve, Shelby
turns away. If that were true, she knows where she’d be right now, asleep and far away, cold to the touch, a dreamer who will never wake or rise from bed or kiss her beloved or lie to him and say, Yes, it’s true, the future is ours.

  Shelby wonders if when you make one choice that’s out of the ordinary, all the rest of your life will change, an emotional domino effect. A few weeks after classes begin she’s called into the office at work. Ellen Grimes has recently been fired; there have been rumors of embezzlement and a trio of accountants has spent the last two weeks in the office, behind closed doors. Shelby assumes she’s also about to be fired as part of the downsizing. Clean out the waste before it cleans you out. Frankly, if she were in charge, she would fire herself. She’s been at the pet store for four months, time enough for people to see that she’s a black hole and a malcontent. She smokes weed in the storeroom with Juan. She wears her smock inside out. She gives herself a fifty percent discount rather than the usual twenty when she’s buying kibble for the General and Blinkie, and she does the same for any customer she senses has fallen on hard times. Shelby is the perfect person to get rid of, so she throws a couple of squeaky dog toys in her backpack before the meeting, thinking it’s the last freebie she’ll ever get from this place.

  The general manager of the entire chain is waiting for her, a man in a suit and tie who stands when Shelby enters, as if she’s someone worthy of his good manners. Shelby sits down. She’s ready, willing, and able to be fired, and her mouth falls open when she’s told that she’s the new manager of the store. The company likes her integrity and her dedication. They’re impressed that she’s gone back to school.