She'll Take It (27 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“Hamlet? Julius? Richard the Third?” I run around the yard peering in bushes. “Skylark? Come on, boys, come on.” I can't believe I've only been here a few hours and I've lost them. I'm going to have to canvas the neighborhood with fliers and post their pictures on milk cartons. I pray to the
Saint of Lost Dogs
for help. Please, please just let me find them. I'll love them like they're my own. Just as I'm about to really freak out, I see a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. It's coming from the driveway. The boys are lined up in front of the garage like little toy soldiers. Mom and Richard left the Honda for me. The boys want to go for a ride. I run up and hug them one by one. Thank you, thank you, thank you. “Want to go for a ride, boys?” Yip, yip, yip. I didn't screw anything up. “Let's go. Let's go get a treat.”
The women at Petco go crazy gushing over the boys. They take turns picking them up, kissing them, and then passing them down the line. It's fun to be so popular, and I'm actually having fun shopping for them. I didn't plan on stealing anything, honest. But I've dressed the boys in little matching outfits that Corinne made them, and can I help it that their little pockets are perfect hiding places for biscuits, rawhide bones, and plastic Shrek chew toys? Three of the dogs are in the cart, two of them in my arms. I place goodies in their pockets without even thinking about it. I'm working fast and furious, my stress building as their little outfits start to bulge.
That's enough, Melanie,
I tell myself. I need a large carrying crate to take them back to the city in. It won't fit in their pockets so that I will have to buy. And since I'll be paying for something, it's more like getting a discount than stealing. Besides, the biscuits are complimentary, aren't they? I lift the large crate into the grocery cart. I push it up near the register and gather the boys in my arms. I'll take them to the car first and come back in to pay for the crate. They wiggle in my arms as I walk out the door.
“Excuse me. Miss. Stop right there.” Suddenly the manager of Petco is standing in front of me, blocking me from the car. The boys start to squirm, and Hamlet jumps out of my arms. The manager picks him up. I'm about to thank him when he starts unzipping Hamlet's pocket. He holds up a rawhide bone and shakes it at me like he's ringing a bell. “I think you'd better come with me,” he says.
Chapter 29
T
he cramped little office smells like Lysol and dog biscuits. The manager and his assistant are going through each of the boy's pocket and laying the items on the desk. I watch in horror from my metal chair. “Listen,” I say. “It's not what it looks like.” The assistant manger shakes his head and points to a closed-circuit television on the wall. “We saw everything,” he says. “Save your excuses for the police.”
“No,” I say. “I left my cart by the register. I was going out to the car to get my purse.” I point helplessly toward the parking lot. “I was just going out to pay. I swear.”
“You concealed items on the dogs and walked out of the store without paying,” the manager says. “That's stealing.”
“I couldn't leave the boys alone. I told you. I had to get my purse out of the car.” The assistant manager doesn't look up from his notepad where he's writing the items down one by one. “My cart is out there by the register,” I plead. “There's a blue carrying crate in it.” The manager bites his lip. “I'm just watching them for my mother. She shops here all the time. I swear to you, sir—I was just going out to the car to get my purse.” The assistant manager stops counting and looks at me. “How much?” the manager asks. “Twenty-two and some change” he says. The manager folds his arms. “Let's say you're telling the truth about your purse,” he says. “Why were you hiding items in their coats?”
“I wanted to see how much I could fit. I'm taking them to the city for the week and I needed to know how much I could fit in their coats,” I say. “I had to make sure I wasn't overstuffing them. It took me forever to make their little outfits, and I wouldn't want their pockets busting at the seam, you know?” Neither manager is smiling but no one has reached for the phone to call the police, so I continue. “I'll prove it to you,” I plead. “Come with me to the car. My purse is in the glove compartment.” It is true too. I had taken my credit card out of my wallet and put it in my pocket. I left the purse in the glove compartment so I could have my hands free for the boys. “Let me get my purse and pay for everything. I swear. This is a huge misunderstanding.”
“Okay,” the manager says finally. “Let's go out to the car. If your purse is there we'll work something out. If not, I'm calling the police.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say again. We've been to the car and just like I told him, my purse was in the glove compartment. Now we're standing at the register where I've charged everything to my credit card. I had to bend down as if I were tying my shoe so that he wouldn't notice me pulling my credit card out of my pocket. “Consider yourself warned,” the manager says. “If a mistake like this happens again, we're calling the police.”
“I understand. Believe me, it will never happen again.”
Oh. My. God. Who would've thought five little dogs could weigh so much? These crates should come with wheels. By the time I get onto the train (they were covered in a sheet just in case anyone wanted to question whether or not you were allowed to travel with five Bichon Frises in one carrying case) I am exhausted. My arms are killing me, and I can't wait to sit down. But I needed three empty seats for me and the boys, and the train is packed. After a fruitless search, I'm forced to stake out a corner of the floor near the bathrooms. I put the crate down and sit on it. Now that I'm safe I have time to think about what just happened.
I just got caught stealing. It was terrifying. It was humiliating. It was exactly what I needed. It's hard to imagine that it would take something so embarrassing to make you really sit up and take notice—but this was definitely a good thing. I think I'm cured. All these years without being caught had made me complacent. The Saints were showing me what fate awaited me if I didn't stop. Maybe I could have Greg after all. He'll never even need to know that I'm an ex-klep-to. Yes, this was definitely a good thing. I lay back and close my eyes with relief.
The boys, who had been perfectly content with their new Shrek chew toys a minute ago, are getting restless. It begins with a faint scraping sound. Then I hear a whine. Then a little yip. Finally, a full-out bark. I kneel down by the crate and stick my finger through the holes. “Shh,” I say. My finger is immediately licked and then bitten. “Ow.” I yank my hand back and throw in a few cookies. Mom owed me big time. By the time we reach Penn Station, I've fed them the entire bag of cookies just to keep them quiet. After a while I was able to time when the conductor would walk by, and a few seconds before his appearance, I'd throw in more cookies. So, except for a few dirty looks from passengers sitting near us, we got by unscathed. But by the time we are in a taxi heading for my place it's already 5:30. I would only have forty-five minutes or so to get ready for my date. It soon became obvious I'd have to take them on a little potty walk when we got home—the boys were stinking up the cab. To his credit the taxi driver didn't mention the smell; he simply rolled down his window.
“It's not me,” I say. “It's the dogs.” I can tell he doesn't believe me; he doesn't even turn around. The dog are farting like they're marines who have just eaten a mess of chili cheese dogs. I'm sure the Saints are punishing me for trying to steal their biscuits. By the time we get to my place, all four cab windows are rolled all the way down. I tip the taxi driver an extra five bucks, and I can see him spraying a can of air freshener in the cab as he peels away, swearing under his breath. I glance at my watch again. It is rush hour and it had taken us fifteen minutes just to cross the park. It was now 5:55. I just didn't have time for this. I couldn't walk the dogs and get ready for my date. Luckily I knew just who to ask for help.
I find him across the street rummaging through a trash can. “How would you like to earn fifty dollars?” I say.
“Your boyfriend needs me to open your car doors again?” he answers without looking up from the garbage. “I charge a hundred for that.” He chuckles at himself and then turned to face me. “What can I do for you, doll?” he says.
“Do you like dogs?” I ask.
Jimmy is thrilled to take the five little monsters for a walk around the block. He's less thrilled when I hand him a fist-full of plastic bags and tell him he has to pick up their poop or risk the fifty bucks I'm offering him (and then some) on a city ticket if he doesn't. “Fifty dollars you say?” he says, looking at the plastic bags in his hand. “I used to be a professional dog walker and that sounds kind of low.”
“Okay sixty,” I say. “But that's my final offer.” He sighs and, with a fistful of leashes and bags, takes off with the boys.
Tavern on the Green is a New York institution and I'm a virgin! I can't count the number of times I've stared longingly from Central Park at the lucky diners inside, wishing it was me in there being wined and dined by a handsome man. I have to hold my tongue to keep from squealing when I read the menu. I don't want to come across as greedy by ordering the most expensive item, but then again if I order the least expensive dish it's like implying I think he's a cheapskate. “Order anything you'd like,” Greg says, reading my mind.
“I'd like you on a stick,” I refrain from saying. I was known for saying obnoxious things on first dates. It was usually due to fear, but it didn't make it any less repulsive. So this time I was censoring myself big-time.
If only we could pause the incredible moments of life and fast-forward through the rest. If we could, the first half of this dinner would go down in history as the most romantic, alive, beautiful evening ever. I wish I were a surgeon capable of surgically removing the first half of the evening from the second. I wish I were a chef who could pick out the rotting bits, throw them away, and serve the rest with a sprig of alfalfa. Greg had ordered a really nice bottle of wine and several appetizers. We had shrimp cocktails, brie, and crackers. Greg asked me about my father, and I talked about him for the first time in a long time. I admitted he had changed so dramatically after I had graduated from high school that sometimes it felt as if our father had died. Greg noted that change is a type of death, and I thought he was extremely profound. Then he said that maybe I could make more of an effort to have a relationship with my father, and I thought he was extremely annoying. But I forgave him because he understood my silence meant I didn't want to talk about it and he gently steered the conversation on to other topics.
I asked him about his family. He told me he had four younger sisters and they all live in California. His parents lived in Santa Barbara, two sisters lived in L.A. (actor/waiters), and two lived in San Francisco (lesbian computer genius and wife and mother). I read once that you'll know how a guy would treat his wife based on his relationship with his mother so I listened carefully for hidden resentments, neediness, bitterness, or other weirdness, but he spoke about her with love and confidence. It soon became clear that Greg Parks was the perfect man.
So you can see why I completely freaked out. What did he see in me? Why wasn't he after a woman who had it all together? He could have a lawyer, a doctor, or a beautiful seismologist. This city was crawling with beautiful, successful women. Maybe I was just a diversion. Or maybe he was intimidated by strong, successful women. Maybe he was a chauvinist. You see how I started to ruin the evening? And then in the middle of my nasty thoughts he has to go and say, “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” And then he gets up to go to the restroom.
I wonder if things would have been different if I had waited until the end of evening. I could have waited for dessert. Yes, I could have at least waited until our dinner plates were being bussed, and no one would have been the wiser. But Greg left the table while I was in the midst of a mini-freak-out session and I did it without thinking. So the next thing I know, Greg is back at the table and our meals have arrived. That's when I realize the error of my ways. Greg's eyes are roaming the table. He looks at his baked potato, pondering his next move. His beautiful arm shoots up, and in an instant the man in black and white is by his side. “Sir?”
“We need salt and pepper,” Greg says. The waiter nods and slides his eyes across the table and then toward me. I meet his gaze defiantly. This was Tavern on the Green after all, and we were the patrons. The waiter's gaze drops to my purse. Oh no.
“Sir,” the waiter says to Greg, “I distinctly remember placing the salt and pepper shakers on your table five minutes before you arrived.”
Greg's brows crease even further, and he scans the table again. “Well I don't see them, do you?” Greg asks. The waiter looks at my purse again. I clamp my hand over it and look down at my silverware. Thank God I didn't take anything else. How in the world did he see me? I had been extremely quick, even stealthlike, while performing the removal. Damn career waiters. They're way too vigilant.
“Maybe something happened to them,” the waiter says. “Maybe she knows.”
Greg follows his gaze to me and throws his napkin on the table. “Just what are you suggesting?” he asks, his voice raising a notch. A few heads turn our way. “I think you had better bring us a set of salt and pepper shakers and your manager,” Greg continues.
“Maybe they fell,” I say, maneuvering to look under the table.
Greg grabs my arm and stops me. “Your manners are appalling,” Greg says to the waiter, whose face is now the color of a beet, but to his credit he's standing his ground. “I've been coming to this establishment for the past six years and I have never encountered service so rude.”
“Is there a problem, sir?” another voice pops up. He is dressed in the same tux but is older and carries himself more authority.
“Yes, there is,” Greg says. “I simply asked this gentleman for salt and pepper.”
The older man does the same sweep of our table with his eyes minus giving me evil eye. “Of course, sir,” he says. “I'm so sorry. Right away.”
And that should be the end of it. Greg's posture relaxes, and the older man turns to retrieve the salt and pepper. But the younger man's hand shoots out, he points a long, manicured index finger directly at me, and he says in a loud voice, “They're in her purse.”
Greg stands and throws down his napkin. The manager swiftly pulls the young waiter out of the way, speaks to him in low harsh tones, and propels him out of sight. Then he bows slightly to Greg. “Apologies, sir. I'll get you salt and pepper right away.” Greg nods but remains standing. I want to shout at him to sit down, I want to dump the salt and pepper shakers out of my purse and pretend they had fallen to the floor, and most of all I want to stand up and throw my arms around Greg for standing up for me. But the biggest urge I have is to run out and never come back.
We get our salt and pepper, but the rest of the dinner is strained. Another waiter is assigned to our table and our dinner is on the house, but the light, airy mood is gone. Greg is sullen and withdrawn. Being an intelligent man, I know he has to be wondering why the waiter accused me of stealing the salt and pepper shakers. He doesn't come out and ask me, but he's on full alert. After dessert the manager approaches to offer his apologies again. The waiter who was so rude to us, he tells us, has been let go. “Thank you,” Greg says. I feel like shit. “I'm so sorry, Melanie,” he says to me on the way out. “I wanted this evening to be special.”

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