Pregnancies

"I'm at home with a Jewish man this week," Phaedra remarked, hoping the casualness of the revelation would shock Madelene. In this, she was disappointed.

"How exotic," Madelene allowed, sighing. "And what does Bernard think of that?"

Phaedra brought the cigarette holder to her plum lips, drawing in the smoke. She considered for a moment, then released it heartily, like a steam locomotive confined in a marshalling yard and anxious to get underway. "Who knows what Bernard thinks? He's in Zurich." Belatedly, she asked, "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

Madelene shook her head slightly. After fifteen years of being asked two minutes too late, why should she begin to take offence now? "I notice you're not at home now, though." She lifted the Manhattan to her lips, peering over it.

"No, I needed to break away," Phaedra moaned. "Thank God you were available, otherwise I think I'd be haunting the newsstands or something."

The waiter, who had been standing stoically at their table for some time, wore the pinched, sour look of a man trapped in a cramped elevator with a flatulent moose: nothing he can say will do him the slightest bit of good, and can in fact only make things worse. He waited.

Finally the doors opened to enable his escape in the form of Phaedra deigning to address to him a single word. "Scampi," she said, flicking the menu up stiffly.

"Is that your order or your obit?" Madelene breezed. Neither of them noticed the faint upward turn of the corners of their waiter's mouth.

Phaedra hurried to take another draw on her cigarette and immediately cast the smoke into exile before condemning Madelene's joke at her expense as "Boring."

"Well, not nearly as exciting as spending the week in bed with a Jewish man," Madelene enthused. She slightly improved, but only slightly, on Phaedra's rudeness by telling the waiter, "The braised canard, please. And I hope it's better done than last time." The waiter nodded and wordlessly retreated.

There was a gloriously warm overcast to this late spring day as the people crowded past the patio and the traffic lazed its way along the street like sleepy logs carried on a river to some common destination. Madelene sunk a little deeper into the muck of her cocktail and said, "So tell me his name, this Hebrew Lothario of yours."

"Oh, you wouldn't know him," Phaedra waved her cigarette. "Hell, I barely know him. His name's Joel, though. Joel Fine."

"And is he?"

"Is he what?"

"Fine?"

"Oh. He'll do, I suppose. He's an actor. Or hopes to be, or something. I met him backstage at South Pacific last month. We've been keeping a little discreet time, here and there."

"And Bernard doesn't know?"

"Oh, Bernard knows, I'm sure. If not the who, exactly, then the what. He does a lot of 'what' himself, of course. Well, we all do from time to time, don't we."

Madelene made no reply other than a sip. She considerd the traffic and people passing by. "I was surprised when you and Bernard made it official. I always thought you were going to end up with Claude Dennison," Madelene said.

"Claude?" Phaedra sputtered, amused by the notion. "He's Catholic."

"Not so impossible these days," Madelene suggested.

"Oh, please, think about it. All that time playing with beads, getting up and down off your knees like some Latin American peon between revolutions, and you spend your whole life pregnant." She sucked the cigarette holder. "Good Lord, you'd think there'd never been a Reformation. No, Claude was a distraction... nothing more."

"If you say so." Then Madelene dared: "Seemed a prolonged one."

Phaedra blithely shruged one shoulder, untroubled to provide either an explanation or excuse.

"I wonder what Claude is doing these days," Madelene asked her Manhattan.

"Seven years for kiting cheques," Phaedra said.

"No."

"Yes! Trying to paper over a short loan to keep his Hudson dealership afloat. The paper didn't extend quite far enough, though, unfortunately. The cheques bounced before he could put sufficient cash under them to cover their fall."

"That's just tragic," Madelene said.

"Isn't it, though." Phaedra sighed a cloudy, smoky sigh. "What a world." She watched Madelene piloting her drink back and forth between the table and her mouth and frowned. "What is taking so long with that drink?"

"I'm sorry, dear, did you order one? I don't recall that you did."

"Didn't I? How remiss of me."

"I certainly thought so."

"Garçon!" Phaedra wailed, raising her hand and peering over her shoulder. No waiter was in sight. "Damn. Those people are never around when you want them. Always perched on your shoulder when you don't, they vanish into dark corners the minute that you—there you are," she said, as their waiter approached. "I'll have what the lady is drinking."

Again, the mute waiter indicated his comprehension and retreated into the restaurant.

"You know, I kind of envied you Claude," Madelene confessed.

"Go on, did you?" Phaedra actually was aware of this, but it was pleasing to hear it from Madelene herself. "Well, you could have had him."

"Maybe if I'd been Catholic."

"You? Catholic? My dear, you're hardly the type; you're no brood mare."

The corners of Madelene's mouth pulled slightly and she glanced away.

Phaedra cursed herself. "Dear, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I know how hard you tried and I admire you for it." Pity, actually, but admire is a much kinder verb. "Surely your heart was in it..."

Madelene nodded softly, still not looking at her.

"I know how much you wanted children," Phaedra beckoned, thinking guiltily of Richie, nicely out of the way in a boarding school.

"Not as much as Leonard," Madelene observed.

"Still..."

Madelene finally looked up to meet Phaedra's eyes. "It wasn't meant to be. Not for me, anyway..."

"Maddy, are you sure it was you and not Leonard? Men have their gremlins too..."

In response, Madelene returned to the well of her Manhattan, dipping her lips into it. Rising from it, she asked, "Do you remember Sandra Foster?"

"Marilyn's daughter? The debutant?" Okay, she's 26. My, how time flies...

"She's having his baby."

Phaedra blinked.

"He's asked me for a divorce."

Phaedra shut her eyes. "Bastard," she said softly.

"He was very kind about it. He explained how it came about. Told me how sorry he was. But... you know how much Leonard wanted to be a father."

Phaedra had had no real idea just how much, until now. A million things to say flashed through her mind; you're too good for him, better off without him, plenty of fish in the sea... none of them appropriate. Neither was, she realized now, her empty boasting of skewering a loveless marriage that meant nothing to her.

"Maddy, I'm sorry. I should have my teeth torn out for some of the things I've said today..."

"It's alright, you were just trying to be interesting," Madelene smiled wanly. "Oh Phaedra, what am I going to do?"

Phaedra set her jaw firmly, as though to squeeze back any semblance of tears. She said, with the force she might have used speaking to the mirror, "Start living again!" She held up a hand when Madelene began to protest, then reached across the table to take Madelene's in it. "Say your good-byes, take a breath, and start to live again." She knew how feebly inadequate it sounded. Nevertheless, it was true.

"But my life is over, Phaedra."

"No, it isn't, Maddy; it's changing." She wanted to tell her like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, but that hardly seemed the appropriate simile for this moment. And anyway, only the fullness of time could reveal whether it was that kind of transformation or not. But a transformation it definitely was, and so she left it at that.

The waiter arrived with Phaedra's Manhattan. She dug into her pocketbook and held out a bill far exceeding the value of the order so far. "Waiter," she said, catching his eye, "two more of these. Please." It was a moment where kindness, any kindness at all, was the foundation upon which the whole world tottered. Maybe, she reflected, maybe it always was.

"Yes, madam, at once," nodded the waiter, cordially failing to notice Madelene's melancholy, and he retreated once more into the restaurant, that great dark womb of comforting food and blissfully obliviating libations.

Rural Route

A raft of photos in black and white, showing views of the bridge, the river, the sunbaked road in dirt, unpaved, still narrow and uncomplicated, as are the skinny children who cavort in dark bathing suits, as natural and incidental as swallows; glistening skin, gap-toothed grins, an evident delight in being timeless and free before the camera, before each other, before the world, before...

A tangle of bikes and towels; frozen visions of dives, splashes, self-conscious displays and ingenuous postures of reclining bodies in the sun-dappled shadows of a willowy riverbank of long ago; offering up as much of their youth as they can to the sun god, a willing sacrifice; scenes of a bridge, a river, a road, a childhood, a freedom now all gone: arms around shoulders, fingers raised behind heads, feet, hair, freckles, bellies, backs, silhouettes under the bridge that offered glimpses of the future.

In God's Driveway

my silver-haired God
encased in robes and
__striped pajama bottoms
__white shirt
__bedroom slippers
the Scottish burr, the twinkling eyes
__the smile for a grandson, his angel,
__at the far end of the driveway framed
____between concrete lions
____with carefully-set agate eyes
summer blaze
of suburban Montreal
__before the angel
__went to school
__and God
__went to Heaven

Border Blues in Green

It's a café in Monaghan Town, the snow falling thickly in the street outside—I didn't know it snowed in the Isles, but there you are—and over by the dart board they're arguing. Just by my accent, I nominate myself to adjudicate their dispute; I'm from 'away', they can tell; I can safely be counted upon to be neutral to their passions, too ignorant of what's important to have a preformed opinion, too guileless to give offense—and yet, give offense I must, to at least one of them.

Then my companion returns bearing coffee and scones (one of those mixed blessings that crossed the little sea), a guardian angel who chases the serpents away from the naked innocent with his flaming Jackeen tongue.

"Where were you in Eden?" I joke.

"Eh?" he says. Then, "D'youse take it with sugar?"

I shake my head and look at the snow. Can't believe it snows here.

Into the Snow

In the cold streets they walk with the care of diamond cutters, each footfall planned, each shift measured, every step a show of deliberate force and grace. It is not the carefree, wild gait of summer. Bundled up, they seem like strangers to their own planet, beings from another world thrust precariously out into a climate never meant for them; and their breaths fly away visibly under the harsh street lights, as though their very souls evaporate.

The snow falls thick and heavy; windless, it fairly smothers as it descends, straight, in love with gravity, untroubled to dance, save by the wake of their bodies, and the pocket monsoons of their own breath.

Alongside, the homes of the middle class; warm, well-lit, prepared, in their largely Presbyterian way, for the approach of Christmas. Opposite them, the park; its darkness deep and rich like Belgian chocolate, inviting and just a bit bitter beyond the iron fence. The sky is a grey wool blanket over all, and the world would be blind but for the hazy, luminous reflection of the city lights below, both gas and, lately, electric. In fact, the night is as bright as any ornamented by a full moon.

"Don't be too worried about what Maggie says," advises Richard. "She's easy to put in a snit, but she's just as easy to cheer up again."

"I sure hope so," Nelson mumbles. "I don't even know what I did."

Richard nudges him through his thick fur coat. "That's usually how it is," Richard laughs. "At least, when it's not serious."

Up the hill comes a Ford, its headlamps slicing through the snow like a hot knife through butter; the track filled in a moment later. They stop, admire the sleek black machine as it passes, grinding out complaints as it fights its way through the debilitating carpet, and turning down the next street.

"Someday," Nelson says.

"Ah, you and the stock market," Richard smiles.

"Any man can be rich," Nelson puffs. "It just takes a little know-how, a little inside knowledge, and a little faith in the market. And one day, that car will be mine, Rich. Mark my words."

"I believe you, Nels, honest."

"Think about it. Now don't you think a long drive on a lovely night like this in smart automobile like that would put me right back in Maggie's good books?"

"Sure it would," Richard nods. "But since you don't have that automobile yet, we're just going to have to find another way."

"It would be easier with the Ford," grumbles Nelson.

* * * * *

They have forgiven him for being Anglican—almost Catholic—because he is a young man of drive and verve, easily likable, and because Margaret favours him. His family is not wealthy, but neither is it poor. Not quite as well off as the Fergusons, the Grants have still managed to see their son through a good college and out into the world as an office clerk. Up and coming. Mr. Ferguson can respect this, surely, since he himself advanced along this route when the century was new. And so Nelson is welcomed, genuinely and sincerely, when he comes calling.

Richard and Nelson kick the snow off their boots as they emerge out of their hats, scarves, fur; hanging each on the myriad hooks along the wall of the atrium. "I'm home," Richard booms. From the bright glow of the study where the radio is playing, family spills forth in greeting. The first, of course, is Mrs. Ferguson, embracing the young man, reciting the incantation of his name, as though in so uttering, she makes him real.

Mr. Ferguson comes out, his pipe jutting from the broad grey mustache that hides his smile, his cheeks fat and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. He wears a plaid vest and has the evening paper tucked under his arm. He stands aside, master of all, content to survey the world he has made for himself; home, family, and esteemed friends. He shakes his son's hand and then Nelson's, for this is how men convey their feelings about one another. Meanwhile, the younger Fergusons mill about, chatting and yapping the things that momentarily fill their narrow worlds, while at the back of it all, Margaret, her green eyes piercing, frowns softly at Nelson.

"Hello, Maggie," Nelson smiles.

"Hello, Nelson," she murmurs. Nelson wants to say more to her but discussions among the Ferguson men, among whom he his now an ad hoc member, keep him from engaging her. He turns to look for her, but she has drifted off.

* * * * *

Supper has ever been a round-table for the issues of the day, if only because Mr. Ferguson is well-informed and values an audience capable of appreciating it. Once Mrs. Ferguson and her daughters have brought in the joint and the vegetables and grace has been said, the fare can be served, seasoned liberally with the sauce of politics.

Nelson tries several times to catch Maggie's eye, sometimes catches and even occasionally holds it, but never for long.

"Well, I'm hoping one day soon to graduate from Canada into the States," Richard explains as he expounds on his laid-out plans for a golden future.

Mr. Ferguson clears his throat, and all eyes fix upon him. He holds up his glass, inspecting the wine, as if the old Latin proverb were to be taken that literally. He says, "While I personally admire the United States in many ways, it's my feeling that any such country, having divorced itself from its roots and forgotten its history, must be forever adrift like an anchorless ship in a stormy sea. It can never truly be at peace with itself. Well, just look at their civil war. If they had stayed the course of empire with the rest of us, slavery would have been abolished in the 1830s and that would have been that." He pats his hand, firmly, on the table top; his judgment pronounced upon the entire race.

"They've achieved great things, Dad," Richard counters. "I'm willing to bet they'll outstrip the British before too long."

"That may be," Mr. Ferguson says. "But don't confuse gaudiness with greatness, Richard. Any nation that assassinates three of its presidents in the space of a lifetime is a troubled land indeed, and not truly civilized."

"What about Prime Minister Perceval?" Margaret says, a quiet smile on her lips.

Her father waves the point away. "One assassination," he declares, "is an aberration. Three is a definite trend."

"Or D'Arcy McGee?" the middle brother, Mason, adds.

"Well, Mr. McGee was never prime minister," Mr. Ferguson points out. "And besides, it's well known he was a Fenian supporter. Not that I'm justifying what happened to him—just that it's not surprising that that kind of politics has its inevitable comeuppance."

"Well, Ireland is free now," Richard says. "After a long struggle."

Mr. Ferguson jabs a potato into his mouth, chews quickly so that he can retort. "They'll rue the day," is all he can manage between swallows. "Mark that, they will."

"Prime Minister Perceval?" Nelson asks, hearkening back to Maggie's point.

Forced by manners to address his inquiry, she smiles sweetly. "Surely your instructors haven't left you in the dark as to the fate of poor Mr. Perceval," she says.

Mr. Ferguson's eyebrow is raised in question over an eye that considers his young friend. "I'm afraid they may have," Nelson says, then allows, "though I may not have been paying attention."

To Nelson's frustration, it is Margaret's father who fields the matter. "British prime minister; assassinated just prior to the initiation of our last bout of armed unpleasantries with the republic to the south," he says, eyes flicking to his intending-expatriate son. "Murdered outside the Commons by one John Bellingham, if I'm not mistaken, over a matter of dissatisfaction with the results of a petition for compensation."

"Ah, thank you," says Nelson, meaning anything but.

Richard gives him a quick wink and a soft kick under the table. "Nice try," he mouths silently. More politics, more food, but no more successful attempts at engaging Maggie follow, until at last, Richard is able to arrange what Nelson has been aching for: a polite retreat to strategize.

"Please don't think we're rude," Richard says, "but I'm just going take Nels aside for a few moments to talk some things over in the drawing room."

"Take your time," Mr. Ferguson blesses them. "You young men go have your chat. We'll be here when you're finished."

Mrs. Ferguson has resumed her knitting, and the youngsters their places around the radio. "Maggie, why don't you bring the boys some tea," she suggests in her smooth, clear, sweet voice; a voice that flows like honeyed chocolate, delighting the ear instead of the tongue. Perhaps not Margaret's ear. She shoots her mother the tiniest of barbed looks, and rises, slowly, casually, as if she could not possibly care less either way. It is Nelson's sudden urge to follow her, confront her in the kitchen, but Richard is true to his word and hauls him away to the drawing room.

"Rich, what are you doing?" Nelson protests, hissing. "This is my opportunity to talk to Maggie."

"Oh, let her stew," Richard advises him. "We'll act like we're having a grand time when she comes in. Make her think you don't miss her half as much as she misses you. That ought to soften her up some."

"Well…" Nelson says.

"Trust me. I've known her twenty-one years."

"…Alright. I'll follow your lead."

"Good man. Now. Laugh."

"Pardon?"

"Laugh, Nels!"

Nelson pulls a face; he says, "Ha ha?"

"No, fool, laugh! Right out loud, as though I'd said the wittiest thing you've heard in a week. As though you were a happy man and the world a merry place!"

Nelson laughs, loudly.

Richard sigh, nods, "Not bad; a little polish and she just might believe you're a yak strangling on its tongue; come on, like this:" and Richard provides a robust, rounded example of a manly laugh; a cordial, pretentious, world-dominating sort of rumble shared by gentlemen of secure and fruitful means. Nelson tries again, and joins the club.

Richard leans back, listening. "Maggie's coming. Watch this," he mutters to Nelson. Suddenly he stiffens, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, his voice booming as though he and Nelson have been conversing so for quite some time; he says, "...When I woke up, she was gone, but she'd left her underwear!" He leans forward, beaming at Nelson, emphasizing his point. He gushes, "Isn't that quaint?"

Carrying a tea tray, Margaret enters, lips parted in the slightest betrayal of astonishment, her face questionably sour. Whether this is due to the fact that Richard might be in earnest, or is simply saying this to provoke her, or due to the fact that he would say such things out loud regardless of the reason, is not clear.

Even Nelson is a bit taken aback, and he wavers between a sickly grin and a wild look of dismay. "She, um," he begins, trying to invent the script, "this girl, she uh, was quite libertine, then?"

"To say the least," Richard trumpets.

Margaret clears her throat; it's like a thousand tiny windows smashing at once. She says nothing, but when Richard turns to acknowledge her she holds up the tray, questioningly. "Oh, thanks, Maggie," he says. "Just put it on the desk."

Margaret sets it down; she goes him one better and pours. Two cups.

Richard wears a sly look; infinitely subtle; he says, "Do you take one lump or two, Nels?"

"One, please," Nels says. He catches a look from Margaret that could cut glass and feels a sinking feeling as she drops a cube into his tea, and stirs it.

"Will that be all," she says, eyeing Richard, "or shall I drink it for you too? Wouldn't want you two worldly gents to have to break from chewing the rug for anything so plebian."

"Why don't you join us?" Richard says.

"I'd as soon not, thank you," she breezes, and recovering her hauteur, she turns to leave.

Richard strides after her, stopping her. "Oh, Maggie, really! That's quite enough. Regardless of the fact that you're behaving like a spoiled child who's had her doll taken away—"

"Am I, now."

"—Yes, you are. And what's more, you are being quite and deliberately rude to a guest of this family—and one who, I might add, thinks the world of you and wonders what he could possibly have done to have you treat him this way."

Nelson is horrified by Richard's bluntness, but oddly enough, it seems to break the ice. Margaret sighs, her shoulders dropping. "Yes, you're right, I've been cold and rude." She meets eyes with Nelson. "I've been upset."

Richard, in what is to Nelson a surprising display of maturity and decorum, backs out of the drawing room, quietly closing the doors shut behind him.

Nelson reaches for Maggie's hand; he's relieved that she does not pull it away. "Maggie, tell me, please. What have I done to upset you?"

They sit together on the couch, the tea still steaming, the mantle clock ticking away the urgent seconds. She draws a breath, as if nourishment for what she has to say. "Nels, things are changing. We've just come through a horrible war for the freedom of all people—"

"A monstrous tragedy we'll never let happen again, Maggie. We've seen to it—"

"Please, Nels. Listen to me. Things are changing," she insists, again. "The hopes, the sureties, the strictures of the last generation... they're not ours. And I don't think they should be."

"Maggie, I... I really don't understand."

She waits. The light of understanding kindles in his eyes.

"Wait," he says. "Does it have anything to do with the letter I sent your father?"

"Precisely," she says. "Precisely that."

"But I thought it would please you. And him. It's just a statement of my feelings, my promise to him, and through him to you, for the future..."

"It was a sweet gesture, in its way. I'm not so modern I can't see that. But what it was, and what it said, hurt me."

"Maggie?"

She pulls a face. "Nelson... it isn't just that you assume my father has anything to do with me, and us. It's what you said in the letter. That I would be forever provided for, and... what was it you said? 'Never a day's tarry,' or some such thing?"

"Well, toil, I think it was." And now he slips from the couch to kneel at her feet, holding her hand. "And it can be like that, Maggie. The future belongs to clever men who can play a symphony on the markets." He reaches up to stroke her face. "You'll never want for a thing."

"But there are already things I want you can't give me."

"Well, not at the moment, but soon, in time..."

"No, Nels. Not material things, like a home or a car or maid. Not a family. I'm talking about a sense of self-worth."

He shakes his head. "Being wife to me, and mother to our children; wouldn't that—"

"No," she says softly. "I'm starting community college in the spring, Nels. Nursing and some accounting. I intend to work as assistant to a doctor in a small prac—"

"Work? Work?" Nelson sputters. "You?"

"What's wrong with a woman working?" Margaret frowns. "Your mother worked till you were nine."

Nelson blinks, leaning back almost as if she had physically struck him. He recovers, and a heavy, malevolent cast molds his face. "Why don't you say it a bit louder," he growls. "I don't believe they heard you."

She closes her eyes, trying, reaching for a calm deep within herself. Is it to be forever this way? To Nelson, her mingled lashes have always evoked the image of a thousand sets of lovers intertwined, but now they look like a pair of black Venus flytraps, dangerous, stealing any hope from the unsuspecting. She tells him, "They know. In fact, my father finds it a point in your favour. Your parents prove what his did; that anyone with the will can pull himself up above the common and make something of himself." She opens her eyes. "To that I would add: or herself."

"And speaking of your father—does he know? Does he know you intend to clean things out of people's ears and wash bedpans and count tongue-depressors, day in and day out?"

"I've spoken to Mom. Dad will, of course, wish for better for me, but he will understand." Her eyes meet his, searchingly, asking: won't you?

"My mother sacrificed to raise a son who would be capable of seeing to it that no wife of his would ever have to do the same. I won't disgrace that."

"It's a noble sentiment, and I suppose in other ears it would chime like a bell. But... not in mine, Nels."

He still kneels, but his hand slips from hers.

"Try to understand. Before I can be a wife and mother, before I can be Margaret Grant... I need to learn who Margaret Ferguson is."

"And how long will that take?"

"I honestly can't tell you. I know there will come a time when I'm ready for those things. But right now, there are things I need to accomplish first." She takes his hand back. "I've been hoping that was something we could undertake together."

"You're asking me to turn my back on everything my mother worked for."

"I am not. She worked so that your wife would have the ability to choose, not be forced." She reaches for his cheek. "Honour that."

"I don't know, Margaret. I don't know."

"Nelson, there's nothing to stop us... you, from making your millions in the market, and me from helping people... except your preconceptions. I do care for you. If you care for me, then find a way."

He rises. "I need time to think."

She lowers her eyes and nods, softly. "Will you be back for the New Year's Eve soiree?"

"Of course."

"I want you to think too," he says. "Hard."

"Nelson, I already have. Now it's your turn."

He gives a single, curt nod. "I'll see you soon." He opens the drawing room doors and leaves.

Fumbled excuses to her parents, shocked acceptance by Richard. Ever the loyal friend, Richard too dons his winter gear for the return to town. The snowflakes still fall thick and heavy, threatening to pull dreams down to the ground with their very weight.

Dreamboat Annie

It happened when I was sitting in the food court of the concourse below the office building where I work. I was seated at a table for two. I usually do, even though I eat alone, because it enables me to spread out and read my book. So it surprised me beyond words when someone hauled the chair out, plunked down, and said, "Hi! What are you reading?"

I looked up into the face of a dog of no easily-discernible breed. Female, judging from the voice and something about the face. She had grey eyes, which were fixed intensively on mine.

I didn't know what else to do. So I said, "Music for Chameleons, by Truman Capote..."

"Is it good?"

"Yes, it's very good, so far. Uh... can I help you with something?"

She smiled, her tail wagging behind her, as she leaned onto her paws, elbows on the table. "I was just wondering about your book is all."

Off behind her I could see one of the mall guards sauntering by the ATMs, watching her out of the corners of his eyes. I began to suspect she wasn't here with anyone. She had no collar; her feet were filthy. No, clearly, she was a stray. Terrific. I knew any sign she was unwelcome would be enough to get her removed. I'm not sure why I didn't; she certain was unwelcome at my table, interrupting my lunch, my reading. But there was just something too predatory about the guard's look. Keeping my eyes on him, I said, "Do you, uh... do you read?"

"A little," she said. "Mostly signs and labels and things. But I love magazines! So what's the book about?"

"Oh, a number of things," I said. "People wishing for magic, people having affairs, solving murders..."

"I like the magic part," she opined. "What do they wish for?"

"Well, a little boy wishes to be a girl," I said. The guard cruised out of sight. I relaxed a bit.

She read this instantly. "Is he gone?" she said, softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, he's gone," I said. "For now."

"I needed... a friend," she said, casting her eyes down. "Thank you."

"It's alright," I said. I noticed her downcast eyes had latched onto my half-eaten pita and could not break away. In spite of myself I said, "Are you hungry?"

I hoped her pride would back her away, but instead, without ever lifting her eyes, she nodded, very softly. She was wringing the thumb of one of her paws with the stubby fingers of the other so tightly that I thought she might break it. Trapped, I said, "Would like part of this?"

"Yes," she said, so softly I only saw her mouth move, her voice lost in the hubbub of the food court.

With a sigh I hoped she couldn't hear, I wiped my hands on a napkin and proceeded to carefully tear what was left of my lunch into two halves. I put one on a napkin and set it in front of her. I waited to see her wolf it down.

She smiled at it, wagging, as though it were alive; a puppy or a kitten or something. Then she looked up at me and said, "What about the magic?"

"Huh? What?"

"Does the little boy get his wish?"

"Who—Oh. No. No, he doesn't."

She was visibly crestfallen. "Oh."

"Go ahead," I said. "Please."

She brightened a little and picked up the morsel in both paws. She didn't gulp it down. She took a bite; chewing it, savouring it. She actually closed her eyes.

I watched her for a moment. Looked at my book. Looked at her again. My book. I noticed she was nearing the end of piece I'd given her. Resigned to it, I pushed the tray with the remaining half, not to mention the complimentary oatmeal cookie, across the table to her. She smiled, wagging so happily she seemed to wiggle.

"Well," I said, closing my book, "I'd better get back." It was a lie, of course; I was nowhere near late. But I decided to nip it in the bud. "Take care," I said.

"But, wait!" she said, half-rising. She caught sight of the guard and quickly seated herself again. "What's your name?" she called to me.

I waved and smiled over my shoulder.

"I'm Annie!" she called. "But I don't have to be..."

I tried not to walk too fast as I made my way to the elevator. Alone, I exhaled, shook my head. When I stepped onto the elevator, I was alone. At the last moment, a woman jammed her way between the closing doors and stepped in with me, reeking of so much perfume I felt I would have been justified in farting just so we could cancel each other out. She might have stepped off four floors later but the olfactory assault she'd laid down kept up the fight in her absence. I only wondered what it would have done to that dog down in the food court.

But the memory of her bothered me for the rest of the day. I'm Annie, but I don't have to be... What did that mean? I was angry with that dog for presuming, putting me in awkward positions, taking advantage of my nature. For making me feel bad. The memory of her robbed dinner that evening of some of its usual visceral joy. I went to bed and woke up afraid that I'd see her again.

As it turned out, I didn't. But I did notice, really notice for the first time, the handful of other dogs in the food court; maybe a half a dozen of them. The ones I noticed did have collars, brushed coats, clean feet. Typically they sat opposite someone or with a group of human workers, or they were sitting at small tables with trays of food in front of them, looking around expectantly, testing the air with their noses for something they felt they would scent before they would see. I watched a beagle light up as a business-suited woman sat down opposite him and the two of them began to lunch. The guards didn't seem to take much notice of these dogs. Not the way they had Annie.

I ate about half my lunch, deciding I wasn't that hungry. Read my book. Looked around. The place was thinning out. I read for a little longer than I should have—the tale was engrossing—then wrapped up the other half and headed for the elevator. Took one last look around the food court, and with a shrug, headed up. Just as well, I thought. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to risk spending the next twenty years of my life or so meeting a homeless mutt for lunch anyway.

I went home to water my plants and straighten the bookshelves.

I got back to my routine. Including my book and my place at my usual table at lunch the next day.

Then she was beside me, above me. Wagging tail uncertainly. "Hi... remember me? Annie?"

I couldn't stop myself from turning slightly. I wanted to say something. She quickly stepped in front of me, holding up her paws in a halting gesture. "I don't want to take anything from you," she said. "I just wanted somebody to talk to for a while."

I waved my hand beside my book; I began, "I just—"

Her eyes shot from my face to something behind me. She cringed back, slightly. The guard from the other day appeared and prodded her with his nightstick. "You," he said. “I told you yesterday. Move along. Back up to the street."

I don't know why I did it. Pity? Anger at the officiousness, the arrogance, the inhumanity? In any case, before I knew it, I'd said it. "She's with me."

The guard turned and glared at me for a moment. I met his stare. After a couple of seconds, I straightened, my brow knitting just a hair. These subtle signals, of course, communicated the message, Is there some problem with that? Moreover, there was another layer to it, even deeper. There was a pissing contest going on here: territorial imperative vs. socio-economic dominance.

Annie stood stock still, only her eyes moving, darting back and forth between me and the guard.

He gave a curt nod, affected an air of indifference, and moved on. I saw Annie sag slightly. I indicated the chair opposite me with my eyes and she slipped down into it.

She glanced out of the sides of her eyes behind herself. “Thank you,” she said. She was shivering. “You’re really brave,” she told me.

“I don’t like people being pushed around,” I said.

She smiled, wagged her tail a bit. She thought of a topic of conversation. “Have any wishes in the book been granted?”

“Not really. Not so far.” I looked at my nearly finished lunch. “I’m not going to offer you this,” I said. “But I’ll get you something if you like.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head so firmly her ears flapped. “Honest, I didn’t come for that. I wanted to ask you about your book.”

But she couldn’t help looking at my sandwich.

“It’s okay,” I said. I almost smiled. “What would you like...?”

She fidgeted. She tried to be polite and true to her word. But hunger can be humbling. “Maybe one of those?” she said, softly, glancing at my sandwich.

“Coming up,” I said, rising. I pushed the book towards her. “See if you can find any wishes. Just don’t lose my place, okay?”

She beamed at me, nodding.

I stepped up to the counter at the sub shop and repeated my order. As I stood there, I gazed back at Annie. She was flipping through the pages, wagging softly at the book as if it were a living thing. I watched her peer into it, concentrating, then wagging in self-congratulations when she'd evidently understood a hard word. Every so often she'd poke her nose into the book and scent it.

The guy behind the counter finished making the sandwich. I bought a bag of chips and, without knowing if she’d like it or not, I gambled on a can of pop. I paid and carried the tray back to her. She raised her head from the book at my approach.

"A lot of people have had this book," she told me, easing it back to me.

"It's a library book," I told her.

"Ah!" she said. "I thought so. But it's not the library I sometimes go into."

"I live across town," I told her.

She nodded. I supposed her nose had told her that, too.

"What were you reading?" I asked, setting the tray before her and sitting down.

She ignored the food and grabbed the book again, flipping through the pages as quickly as she dared without risking dislodging my bookmark. Clearing her throat, she sat up straight, and running her stubby finger under the lines, slowly recited: “It just means more sil... silllleee... cone, more bills from Oree...ren...tr... tree... itch. I’d rather see the human wrinkles. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We all, sometimes, leave each other out there under the skies, and we never understand why.”

She looked up at me, smiling, clearly very proud of herself. “That means something,” she told me. “Something important. But I’m not sure what, exactly. It just makes me feel sad. I like when reading makes me feel something.”

“That was really very good,” I said. “Where did you learn to read?”

“Started with a little girl in a school yard. Her name was Tammy. She used to give me her apple because she didn’t like apples. But only after I practiced reading. Every day at recess. Then summer came and they all went away...”

“Eat,” I prompted her.

She nodded, hefting the sandwich and taking a bite. “Thank you,” she said through a mouthful of food.

I let her eat for a bit, then I asked, “So Annie,” I said. “Annie what?”

She paused. I saw her make a conscious effort not to look sad. “Nothing,” she replied, “...just Annie.” It confirmed my worst suspicions.

“So that little girl, Tammy... you didn’t live with her?”

She shook her head. “Never lived with anyone. Except my mom. Then one day I came back from playing and she was just gone. I don’t know why.”

“Is she the one who called you Annie?”

She smiled, wistful. Momentarily no longer able to eat. She nodded softly, her eyes far away. “She heard a song one day, outside a store. When we were living in the alley. It was about a boat called Annie. Later on I heard it. I think it was the same song.” She leaned forward. “It was about me. It really was about me! How did they know?”

“Sometimes life’s like that. Go on, eat.”

She went back to eating, but without as much gusto. “I’m getting kinda full,” she said. Then, sheepishly, “Can I... take away the rest?”

“Of course,” I said. “Eat it this evening.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d never find anything like this!”

That stung. The idea that she would ordinarily be picking through.... whatever... troubled me. An idea crossed my mind, and I thought I’d test the waters. "Are you going to be back here tomorrow?"

"Yes... sure!" she said.

I reached for my wallet. I took out a bill and showed it to her. "Do you know how much money this is?"

She nodded. "Twenty dollars," she said. Her eyes were focused intently on it.

I set it on the table and gently pushed it across at her. "If you're going to be here tomorrow, I'd like you to order me the same thing as I had the other day. It's a pita, from that place there, and they call it the Fiesta Mexicali."

"Fiesta... Mexi... ca... got it," she said.

"That'll cost about eight dollars," I said. "You can spend the rest on whatever you'd like to eat. I need to go back up now," I told her. "So... I'll see you tomorrow?"

"You bet!" she enthused, and squeezed the bill in her paw up into a mangled ball.

I nodded, and headed off. "Bye!" she called. I waved over my shoulder, wondering if, steeling myself for the likelihood that, it was the last I'd see of her, or the money.

There are always buskers in the subway station in my neighbourhood at the end of the day. More often than not, it's a guy and his dog. Coming home that day was the first time I took real notice of them. He was a thin, middle-aged, scraggly kind of dude in long hair and sunglasses who might have been a biker except for his cheerful demeanor. She was a pretty German shepherd with bright yellow eyes and a red kerchief around her neck. She was tuning his guitar, one ear pricked, as he set up his amp and speakers. There was a tambourine at her feet. They sang together; I'd heard them before in passing. She had a gravelly voice but it was a nice complement to his, smooth and booming. In his guitar case I saw a dozen copies of their CD for sale. Posed together, they beamed out from the case; Kim and Sal, it said above them. I wondered which was which. The shepherd caught my eye with hers; she smiled at me, wagging her tail. I'm not sure why, but I winked at her.

She winked back. I wondered what she knew.

At home, after supper, I dug out it: a cassette tape I’d had since junior high school. I cued up the song and listened to it for the first time in years...

Heading out this morning into the sun
Riding on the diamond waves, little darlin' one

Warm wind caress her
Her lover it seems
Oh, Annie
Dreamboat Annie my little ship of dreams

Going down the city sidewalk alone in the crowd
No one knows the lonely one whose head's in the clouds

Sad faces painted over with those magazine smiles
Heading out to somewhere won't be back for a while
Won't be back for a while
Won't be back for a while

The song was in my head as I drifted off.

The next morning seemed unusually long but finally lunchtime rolled around and I headed down to the food court. I headed for my usual table but didn’t see Annie. I waited, keeping company with my watch, until at last hunger and good sense conspired to make me smile and shake my head sadly. The song sure as hell was about her. Won’t be back for a while...

I ordered my own lunch, and ate it alone. Slowly. I was still alone when I crumpled the bag up and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. “Well,” I said, to no one but myself, “I guess that’s that.” It was no big deal for me to do this; I talked to myself at home all the time.

It was a little after one-thirty when the phone at my desk rang. It was Tracy, our receptionist. “Jim, do you know a dog named Annie?”

“Yyesss,” I said, slowly. “Why?”

“Well, because she’s here and she says she has some money for you.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Tracy to simply tell Annie to keep the money and send her away, but I didn’t. I needed to know, at least, how the hell she’d found me. “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

And there she was, sitting in reception, holding a styrofoam cup of water I supposed Tracy had given her. She jumped up when she saw me, the crumpled twenty-dollar bill in her paw. “Oh, it took me ages to find you!” She held the bill out to me.

“What happened? Why weren’t you there at lunch time?”

“I was! But that... that guard. He just grabbed me. He said terrible things, right in front of everyone... in front of other dogs... he wouldn’t listen...”

Behind her desk, Tracy was shaking her head in sympathy.

“Annie, how did you ever find me?”

“You smell like this place,” she said. “I managed to come back and sneak past the guard and get on the elevator.”

“You just checked every floor till you found....”

“The one with your work smell, yeah.”

Jesus. I worked on the 12th floor. “But I didn’t even... tell you... my name,” I said, feeling a sudden rush of shame.

Tracy piped up. “Didn’t make it easy. Her description could have been any of a dozen men up here. But then she said you smelled like flowers. Special flowers in Edenvale.” She laughed. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

She was right; that was my neighbourhood, and there was a church garden of rare beauty there that I passed to and from my way to the subway.

“She said your name was Jim,” Annie said. “Jim Butler.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m glad I found you.” She wagged her tail softly. She held out the twenty-dollar bill.

That was it. The battle was over.

“Annie, would you come with me?” I said.

She lowered her paw, still holding the bill. She nodded softly, head tilted uncertainly.

“Tracy, I’m not sure, but I might be a little while.”

“Sure,” said Tracy.

I nodded Annie out into the hall. I pressed the button for the elevator, and as we waited, she held the money out to me again. I ignored it.

“Where... where are we going?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe to straighten something out.”

The door opened. I extended my arm to usher her in, then stepped on with her.

I pressed the button for the concourse, and the doors closed.

“Annie,” I said, “would you like to come home with me?”

I heard her breath catch. “Oh, yes,” she said, softly.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. If you find you don’t care for it, you can make your way as best you know how again.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “What are you going to call me?”

“Annie. That’s your name.”

“But it doesn’t have to be...”

“Yes,” I said, catching her eye. “It does.”

I thought for a moment she was going to jump me or embrace me or something, but the doors opened, and I stepped out.

“Come on,” I said. “Incidentally, have you ever been on the subway?” I asked as I marched along the tile floor and she hurried to keep pace with me.

“Sure! Well, ...not officially,” she admitted, a new sort of Artful Dodger.

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it,” I said, “if you’re going to keep having lunch with me.”

She followed me to the security post at the edge of the food court. One of the guards was behind the desk; the chief, I supposed. He didn’t look up. I rapped my knuckles on the glass. He looked at me, faintly startled. “One of your guards,” I said. “Tall guy. Swarthy. Usually around at—Never mind, there he is.” I turned away, and strode up to the approaching guard.

The guard looked surprised to see Annie, and met my gaze with a puzzled look as I stepped up to him.

“Did you throw this dog out of here earlier?” I demanded.

“She’s a stray. She’s not supposed to be in here.”

I pointed. “This is my dog. Annie. Annie Butler,” I said, turning to her.

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Because you’ve seen her with me.”

He leaned over me. He was easily four inches taller than me, and thirty pounds heavier. “Then get her a collar. Or next time, she’s going to animal control.” And that, he seemed to say, was that.

I heard a fearful whimper that enraged me. The answer came to me like lightning; the memory of a cat I’d had as a boy.

“Her last collar,” I growled, “gave her a rash. A severe rash she’s just gotten over. She came down here today to buy my lunch—” I turned to Annie, “—show him the bill, Annie...”

Annie gingerly raised the twenty-dollar bill.

I continued. “And after lunch, she was going to wait here for me to finish work, after which, we were going to pick up a new collar now that she finally can wear one again.”

The guard eased back from his position looming over me.

“When I came down here at lunch time, I couldn’t find my dog. I didn’t know what had happened to her. Luckily, she found me. She told me that you,” I said, jabbing a finger at him, “had thrown her out.”

“It was just a misunderstanding.”

I could have left it at that, but I didn’t. “The next time I come down here, from up there,” I said, making the point with my finger, “expecting to find my dog here, she had better be here.” I turned my head slightly, just to make sure the chief behind his ignorant glass was paying attention. “Or there’s going to be trouble down here.”

“It’s not a pet-sitting service,” the guard before us said.

“I’m not asking you to look after her. She can look after herself. I’m telling you to leave her alone.”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I turned to the dog. My dog. I thought about what Capote had said in the passage she’d hesitantly read to me. And sometimes we shelter one another from the sky, I thought. Who knows why? I said, “Annie, you take that money and you get yourself something to eat. Then find yourself something interesting to read. Settle into a nice spot and I’ll be back in about three hours.”

She looked on the verge of tears. But she didn’t cry. She just wagged her tail softly and clutched the bill. “Okay...”

“You wait here for me, okay?” I said, shooting daggers at the guard from the corners of my eyes.

“Yes, Jim,” she said.

And she did.

Verily, it sucketh

A couple of times a month on my way home I encounter this guy with a lost, defeated look who wordlessly hands out these small religious pamphlets. I always take them, open them, try to look interested. I never just throw them away; this means something to someone.

But the thing is, the quotes they contain are taken from some translation of the Bible into contemporary English. What's wrong with the good old King James Version? If you're going to be bothered, the tracts should at least have a little fire-and-brimstone resounding thunder about them. They shouldn't sound like God sitting on your couch trying to sell you a vacuum cleaner.