“I’ll probably forget in five minutes, anyway.” Mooshie made a sour face. “There were five Firsts, six Seconds, seven Thirds, eight Fourths and nine Fifths, in the beginning.”
“How do you know?”
Mooshie shrugged, memories like a faucet turned on and off by someone else.
Jimmy rapped on the door. “Five minutes, Dara.”
“Thanks, hon.” She tugged on her needle-like hair. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“Get engaged to you.”
His mouth dropped in shock. “You?”
“Yeah me.” Mooshie shook her fist. “But don’t even think of touching Mooshie’s Golden Forest.”
• • • •
THE EARLY MAY night was chilly and the Riverdale streets were deserted. It was a nice neighborhood with well-kept buildings, some dating back to the end of the last century, some built after the first brief clash with Iran in 2033.
They’d moved into one of the newer ones, courtesy of Annette’s parents. He was never sure if they gave them the glorious, already furnished two-bedroom apartment with a river view because they loved their daughter or simply wanted to show up Puppy like hey, you’ll never afford anything like this.
They were right, he had to admit. That’s why he’d decorated the fire escape. Take that, Despicable Ma and Pa Reg. Laid down a thick rug, put out a battery-powered lamp and mini-fridge and cooked SC eggs and cheese on the tiny portable stove. White wine, Van Morrison overseeing the entertainment. They’d fall asleep some nights, even when chilly like now, huddled under the blankets in their spare room, as she called it. Maybe Annette loved it because she wanted to be hopeful, as if the fire escape would breed and take over the rest of the apartment, devouring the stuffy, expensive dark wood furniture and showing her parents how wrong they were.
See how his little stove turned into a real one? How about that two-by-three shag rug growing into wall-to-wall? Munch munch eat that big ol’ eighty inch TV. Back when Annette believed in him. Back when Puppy still wanted to prove her wrong.
Maybe he still did and when would that stop?
At a light, he watched A20s scrub red graffiti off the side of a building. They paused to inspect their work.
“You can still read it,” Puppy said.
The three ‘bots turned sullenly. One of them grumbled and fetched a bucket of brown paint off their truck. It wouldn’t match the building, but it would blot out the KILL ALLAHS message. Third one he’d seen in the past couple days, Puppy wondered, buzzing Annette’s intercom.
“Who is it?” Annette rasped.
“Me.”
There was a long pause as she selected various disastrous scenarios. “What’d you do?”
“I have news. Will you let me in?”
Annette greeted him in a shapeless robe and big tortoise shell glasses, yawning. He had to gesture for her to step aside and let him in.
“It’s nearly midnight,” she complained, indicating boxes of neatly stacked shoes. “I’ve got a presentation in the morning.”
“And I’m pitching.” This time he wanted to make it out of the fourth inning.
“Oh. Well. Pardon. Want something to drink?” she asked mechanically.
He shook his head.
“I could find some food if you’re really famished.”
“I’m fine.”
Same apartment. Same furniture, paintings, knick-knacks. He’d have thought she would’ve burnt everything and started over.
Annette waited. “I’m not giving you anything.”
“You think I came here at midnight to ask for a painting?”
“Then why are you here?”
“Can I sit down?”
“If you have to.” She yawned again and caught him glancing at her breasts. She flushed and tightened the robe. “I’m tired, Puppy.”
He figured it’d be easy. That’s the point, isn’t it, he asked the painting of Grandma beaming majestically over the Bronx. Very smart to make divorce so difficult.
“I found someone.”
“Someone?” Annette squinted suspiciously. “A partner?”
“Yes. We’re very happy and we’re going to be engaged.”
She scrunched up her face, taking this in warily. “Who is it?”
“Dara Dinton.”
“I never heard of her.”
“And that means she’s not real?”
Annette shrugged. “Where’d you meet?”
“The bar where she sings. What’s it matter?”
“Just curious.” Annette tilted her head. “How old?”
“I don’t know…”
Annette’s eyes brimmed with doubt. “You don’t know.”
“She’s a little older.” If you count the time in Heaven, around seventy-five. “Honestly, I don’t care.”
“Uh-huh.” Annette frowned. “And you’re really engaged.”
“You think I’m lying.”
Annette pursed her lips. “A singer.”
Puppy tossed off a few chords from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. I just said that.”
“Because The Beatles were all boys.”
Puppy flushed. “Are you trying to trick me, Annette?”
“I’m just trying to make sure this is true. A girl. Dara…”
“Dinton,” he helped. “Very nice.”
“Uh-huh.” Annette twisted her fingers nervously. “For real, Puppy?”
“For real, Annette,” he said softly. “You and Kenuda can get married.”
“You’re happy?”
Puppy really didn’t know how to answer that. “Sure.”
“That’s not like really enthusiastic.”
“You want me to jump up and down?”
“I want to make sure this will last.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. “I won’t change my mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Or she might,” Annette snapped back. “There is the ninety-day exploratory period.”
“I was married before, I know.”
“I’m just reminding you. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
“Again. That’s what you mean. Puppy screws up getting engaged. Like Puppy screws up everything else.”
Annette’s shrug infuriated him.
“I love Dara and she loves me. Passionately.”
“Well good because I love Elias wildly and he loves me wildly.”
“I’m glad we’re both madly in love.”
“Isn’t it beautiful.” Annette glared. “When are you filing the papers?”
“Tomorrow after the game.”
“Good.” She yanked open the door. “Make sure they send me a copy.”
“I think that’s the law.”
“Thank Grandma’s kneecaps. Good night.”
“Screw you, too, Annette.”
She perched herself on the windowsill and watched him leave the building and head down Riverdale Avenue, then crawled onto the fire escape with a bottle of wine, huddling beneath an old wool blanket. It was too late to tell Elias the good news.
• • • •
ABDULLAH BIN-NASR THOUGHT very highly of himself, which left no room to think highly of anyone else. Even faking obeisance or respect was difficult and often accompanied by a sneer which, when that angered his father, he explained away as a unique
