The Pink Ghetto. Liz Ireland

is it?”

      “Open it.” When I hesitated, he yanked the bow off himself.

      After that, I didn’t have to open the box. It opened itself. Suddenly, I was staring into the face of a tan colored puppy. His little pink tongue was sticking out at me, panting like mad, and his paws were scrabbling pointlessly against the cardboard. He wanted out of that box and onto my lap. Onto someone’s lap. Like all puppies, the eagerness in his eyes gave you the impression that he wasn’t going to be too particular. Anybody would do.

      He yelped. I jumped.

      “Isn’t he cute?” Fleishman said. He picked up the puppy and plopped the squirming mound of fur onto my chest. My neck and face were immediately assaulted by that tongue and the Mighty Dog breath that went with it. “His name’s Maxwell.”

      “Maxwell?”

      “For Maxwell Perkins, the editor. I thought your dog should have a publishing name.”

      “My dog?” Maxwell let out another yelp, letting me know that was A-OK with him.

      “I thought it would suit him better than naming him some lame author name, like Hemingway. That’s so unoriginal. Of course, Max isn’t exactly original, either. We could call him Perkins, but people might think we named him for Anthony Perkins—”

      It was time to interrupt his soliloquy. “My dog?”

      “Of course. He’s a gift.”

      The dog was having a hard time balancing on my lap, so I put him on the ground. He proceeded to try to crawl up my leg. I had to admit he was awfully cute. His fur was short and bristly in appearance but soft to the touch, and his little face was like something you’d see in a Puppy Chow ad. The tips of his ears folded downward, giving him a look that was goofily rakish.

      “He’s a purebred Norfolk terrier,” Fleishman said. “He’s even got papers.”

      It was hard to believe something so small and silly looking had a pedigree. Also, pedigree was usually accompanied by a healthy price tag. Last I heard, Fleishman was supposed to be broke. “What did you do, rob a pet store?”

      Fleishman laughed. “I put him on American Express.”

      “Since when do you have one of those?”

      He looked offended. “I’ve been a proud member since ten AM this morning.”

      “You know AmEx makes you pay off in full at the end of the month, don’t you?”

      “Okay, so at the end of the month I’ll find some money.”

      Shame he couldn’t have found some when we were scrambling for the rent.

      He laughed. “Rebecca, will you lighten up? I charged the pizza, too—and you don’t mind that.”

      Speaking of pizza, I grabbed a piece and chewed as I stared at Maxwell. At the first whiff of food, he plopped down on his rump and started to wag his stubby little tale. His big brown eyes melted me. They could have melted the polar ice cap, what was left of it. “Hey Maxwell, you want some pizza?”

      “No—no pizza. I got some Science Diet puppy formula.”

      He said it with such paternal sternness, I drew back in surprise. “I can’t believe you got a dog. Dogs are a lot of work, you know. They’re a responsibility. They have to be fed regularly, and walked, and housetrained…”

      Not to mention, I started thinking about Ann and her Maltese. No life. Pathetic. Would that be me soon?

      “Yeah, but puppies are so cute,” Fleishman said. “How can you resist?”

      Maxwell was chewing on my shoestring. The truth was, I couldn’t resist. Outside of a goldfish, I hadn’t had a pet since I was a little kid. I had always wanted a dog.

      “I felt it was time,” Fleishman said. “We’re getting older, you know. Besides, won’t it be nice to have a warm body to come home to?”

      I glanced into Fleishman’s eyes and felt the pizza like a lump in my throat. I looked back down at Maxwell, who was still gazing at me adoringly. Or maybe it was just hungrily. It would be nice to have a warm body waiting for me, I supposed, even if it was canine. And as long as I kept food in my hand, I would always have his undivided attention. How many relationships could you say that about?

      “So what do you say…” Fleishman looked at me. “Can we keep him, ma?”

      I laughed. “Did you really think I could get rid of that?”

      As if knowing his cue, Maxwell barked. Which reminded me. “Did you check this out with the landlord?”

      “It’s okay. I bribed the super when I got home.”

      “How did you do that?”

      “Cash advance.”

      I would have loved to lecture on the fact that he would regret being so financially reckless someday, but the fact was that he probably wouldn’t. Fleishman lived in a parallel universe where the chickens never came home to roost. Or when they did come home to roost, they ended up laying golden eggs.

      “So how was your day?” he asked. “I mean, up to now. I know you’re blissfully happy now.”

      “Half okay and half awful.” I told him about what had happened with Cassie after I talked to him on the phone. “I think she has it in for me, I really do. If you could have seen the look in her eye when she was sitting there with those tip sheets…”

      “Some people are just like that.”

      “Right.” And some people were just psychopaths. I was pretty sure I had put my finger on our office psycho, but I didn’t have the evidence. “Plus I have all this work to do now.”

      “Homework?” He looked alarmed at the idea of work being brought into the house, and eyed my tote bag suspiciously.

      “Just till I’m caught up.”

      “When will that be?”

      I thought for a moment. “Somewhere in the year 2010.”

      “Did you bring any more books home?” he asked.

      “Just the one I’m editing.”

      He seemed disappointed.

      “I’d better get to work,” I said, reluctantly. It would have been so nice to play with the puppy and then just conk out.

      Fleishman got up. “I’ll take Max around the block.”

      I looked doubtfully at that unruly lump of fur. “Does he walk on a leash yet?”

      “No, but he enjoys gnawing on it. I’ll just carry him down and set him on a patch of grass, if I can find any.”

      He left and I got out the book. I was already so tired, I wondered how I would be able to stay awake long enough to get anything done. I spent ten minutes just getting myself situated—sharpening pencils, brewing a pot of coffee, doodling on a pad of Post-it notes.

      When Fleishman and Max came back, I hadn’t even started yet.

      “I’ll just sit here and read,” Fleishman said. “I won’t bother you at all.”

      He settled on the couch with a copy of Forgotten Nights by Joy Silver, an amnesia book I think he had already read. Max proceeded to chew on the cover. The next time I looked up, the book had dropped to the floor next to the futon, and Fleishman was asleep with the puppy on his chest.

      I wished I had a camera.

      Then I shook my head. I was entertaining thoughts I shouldn’t. Like how sweet it was of Fleishman to bring Max home, even though the thought of taking care of a dog for the next fifteen years made me a little panicky. It was hard not to feel, there in that little room with just the three of us, that it had been a rather couply gesture. Not that we were a couple