slack off, will you?”
“Maybe I can help?” It was Serra, intervening as sweetly as possible.
Mona felt herself reddening. “It’s no problem. I’ll just fill out the …”
“Go home, Mo.” Serra squeezed her forearm gently.
“I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” She felt like a real ogre.
“You deserve it,” said Serra. “Go on. Scoot.”
So Mona got the hell out, stopping briefly on the way home to write a bad check for tuna fish and detergent at the S & M Market. Once upon a time—three years ago, to be exact—she had gotten a big laugh out of the S & M Market. She had promised herself she would take Mouse there if he ever came to Seattle.
But Mouse had never come, and the irony inherent in the name of her corner grocery had faded like her California tan. They had drifted apart gradually, and she wasn’t sure whose fault that was. Now the thought of a reunion was embarrassing at best, terrifying at worst.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Mouse was doing O.K., if he had found someone to hug him occasionally, if he would still call her Babycakes the next time they met. She had thought of phoning him three or four times, while on Perco-dan from her periodontist, but she didn’t want his sympathy for her dud of a life.
When she reached her apartment, her neighbor Mrs. Guttenberg accosted her in the lobby. “Oh, thank God, Mona! Thank God!” The old lady was a wreck.
“What is it?” asked Mona.
“It’s old Pete, poor thing. He’s in the alley out back.”
“You mean he’s …?”
“Some fool kid ran over him. I couldn’t find a soul to help me, Mona. I’ve got a blanket over him, but I don’t think … The poor old thing … he never deserved this.”
Mona rushed into the alley, where the dog lay immobile in a light drizzle. Only his head stuck out from under the blanket. A rheumy eye looked up at Mona and blinked. She knelt and laid her hand carefully against his graying muzzle. He made a faint noise in the hack of his throat.
She looked up at Mrs. Guttenberg. “He doesn’t belong to anyone, does he?”
The old lady shook her head, fingertips pressed to her throat. “All of us feed him. He’s lived here for ten years at least … twelve, Mona … he’s got to be put out of his misery.”
Mona nodded.
“Could you drive him to the SPCA? It’s just a few blocks.”
“I don’t have a car, Mrs. Guttenberg.”
“You could push him.”
Mona stood up. “Push him?”
“In that shopping cart I take to the S & M.”
So that was what they did. Using the blanket to hoist him, Mona laid Pete in Mrs. Guttenberg’s shopping cart and pushed him six blocks to the SPCA. An attendant there told her there was no hope for the dog. “It won’t take long,” he said. “Do you want to take him back with you?”
Mona shook her head. “He isn’t mine. I don’t know where I’d … no … no, thank you.”
“There’s a surrender fee of ten dollars.”
A surrender fee. Of all the things they could have called it.
“Fine,” she said, feeling the tears start to rise.
Five minutes later, when the deed was done, she wrote another bad check and pushed the empty cart home in the rain. Mrs. Guttenberg met her at the door, babbling her gratitude as she fumbled in her change purse for “something for your trouble.”
“That’s O.K.,” she said, trudging toward the elevator.
During her slow, clanking ascent, she thought suddenly of the maxim Mouse had called Mona’s Law: You can have a hot lover, a hot job and a hot apartment, but you can’t have all three at the same time.
She and Mouse had laughed about this a lot, never dreaming that one day, two out of three would be regarded as something akin to a miracle.
The lover part didn’t bother her much anymore. By living alone she could maintain certain illusions about people that helped her to like them more—-sometimes even to love them more. Or was that just her rationale for being such a crummy roommate?
The apartment part went straight to the pit
“Maybe I can help?” It was Serra, intervening as sweetly as possible.
Mona felt herself reddening. “It’s no problem. I’ll just fill out the …”
“Go home, Mo.” Serra squeezed her forearm gently.
“I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” She felt like a real ogre.
“You deserve it,” said Serra. “Go on. Scoot.”
So Mona got the hell out, stopping briefly on the way home to write a bad check for tuna fish and detergent at the S & M Market. Once upon a time—three years ago, to be exact—she had gotten a big laugh out of the S & M Market. She had promised herself she would take Mouse there if he ever came to Seattle.
But Mouse had never come, and the irony inherent in the name of her corner grocery had faded like her California tan. They had drifted apart gradually, and she wasn’t sure whose fault that was. Now the thought of a reunion was embarrassing at best, terrifying at worst.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Mouse was doing O.K., if he had found someone to hug him occasionally, if he would still call her Babycakes the next time they met. She had thought of phoning him three or four times, while on Perco-dan from her periodontist, but she didn’t want his sympathy for her dud of a life.
When she reached her apartment, her neighbor Mrs. Guttenberg accosted her in the lobby. “Oh, thank God, Mona! Thank God!” The old lady was a wreck.
“What is it?” asked Mona.
“It’s old Pete, poor thing. He’s in the alley out back.”
“You mean he’s …?”
“Some fool kid ran over him. I couldn’t find a soul to help me, Mona. I’ve got a blanket over him, but I don’t think … The poor old thing … he never deserved this.”
Mona rushed into the alley, where the dog lay immobile in a light drizzle. Only his head stuck out from under the blanket. A rheumy eye looked up at Mona and blinked. She knelt and laid her hand carefully against his graying muzzle. He made a faint noise in the hack of his throat.
She looked up at Mrs. Guttenberg. “He doesn’t belong to anyone, does he?”
The old lady shook her head, fingertips pressed to her throat. “All of us feed him. He’s lived here for ten years at least … twelve, Mona … he’s got to be put out of his misery.”
Mona nodded.
“Could you drive him to the SPCA? It’s just a few blocks.”
“I don’t have a car, Mrs. Guttenberg.”
“You could push him.”
Mona stood up. “Push him?”
“In that shopping cart I take to the S & M.”
So that was what they did. Using the blanket to hoist him, Mona laid Pete in Mrs. Guttenberg’s shopping cart and pushed him six blocks to the SPCA. An attendant there told her there was no hope for the dog. “It won’t take long,” he said. “Do you want to take him back with you?”
Mona shook her head. “He isn’t mine. I don’t know where I’d … no … no, thank you.”
“There’s a surrender fee of ten dollars.”
A surrender fee. Of all the things they could have called it.
“Fine,” she said, feeling the tears start to rise.
Five minutes later, when the deed was done, she wrote another bad check and pushed the empty cart home in the rain. Mrs. Guttenberg met her at the door, babbling her gratitude as she fumbled in her change purse for “something for your trouble.”
“That’s O.K.,” she said, trudging toward the elevator.
During her slow, clanking ascent, she thought suddenly of the maxim Mouse had called Mona’s Law: You can have a hot lover, a hot job and a hot apartment, but you can’t have all three at the same time.
She and Mouse had laughed about this a lot, never dreaming that one day, two out of three would be regarded as something akin to a miracle.
The lover part didn’t bother her much anymore. By living alone she could maintain certain illusions about people that helped her to like them more—-sometimes even to love them more. Or was that just her rationale for being such a crummy roommate?
The apartment part went straight to the pit
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