“. . . if you do, your arm is gonna be the next to break . . .”

  Laughing as if it’s a joke. Yes probably meant to be a joke.

  But at last the bracelet is on my wrist, and looks beautiful indeed, and the gift-giver is gratified.

  “Like it, eh? Looks great on you.”

  Yes yes yes. Thank you.

  “D’you like it? Huh?”

  Yes yes yes. Thank you.

  “Solid gold-plate. Wasn’t cheap. Don’t have anything like this, do you, sweetheart?”

  Noooo. That is correct.

  “In fact, you don’t have much of anything, do you, Vi’let? I mean—nice things. Like this.”

  Noooo. Correct.

  Leaning over to kiss him. In fact feeling grateful. In fact a surge of something like yearning.

  But he grabs my head, presses his mouth against my mouth, hard as he’d never done before.

  Tongue poking into my mouth, jabbing like an angry man shouting.

  “Y’know, Vi’let—you are the skinniest girl I ever fucked since—high school.” Laughing so his jowls quiver, drunk-glistening eyes fixed on mine to see how I am taking this frank revelation.

  Seeing the faint hurt smile on my face, as if relenting: “Hell, all my girlfriends were skinny, then.”

  NO LONGER DO I HOUSE CLEAN FOR ORLANDO METTI. NOW THAT I’ve been promoted from servant to girlfriend.

  Yet: “The damned little dog has made a mess again. D’you think you could clean it up? Please? Makes me feel like puking just to smell it.”

  And: “Damned little dog is all excited you’re here, listen to it! OK if you take it out for a walk?—please.”

  And: “Damned little dog needs to see the vet, it’s been wheezing and sneezing. Running nose, eyes. D’you have time to take it, Vi’let? Please.”

  This is a surprise. Well, not much of a surprise. Not possible for me to say no.

  Metti explains that he has been paying the son of the building superintendent to take Brindle out at least once a day. But the boy isn’t dependable—“Not like you, Vi’let.”

  In a rush the little French bulldog comes yipping, whining, wheezing, sneezing against my legs. Shuddering with love, need. Trying to climb up into my lap though I am not sitting but standing. Lapping his soft moist tongue against my hands. Dribbling urine onto my shoe. (Fortunately glaring Master doesn’t notice.)

  Poor little Brindle! Desperate to be loved, saved. His toenails click against the hardwood floor, so eager is he to avoid Master.

  It is true that the little bulldog has been wheezing, sneezing, snuffling, struggling to breathe recently. Each time I’ve seen him he has been sounding worse. Both his big dark shiny wide-set eyes are runny and one of them, the left, is obscured with mucus, which I have tried to wipe away.

  Still not convinced that Metti is serious about my taking his daughter’s dog to the vet’s but yes, Metti is serious. It seems that I have been promoted another time to something like close relative, family member. Sharing household responsibilities, for Metti has an “urgent” business call to make and does not have time—tonight—for the damned little dog.

  Provides me with address for Dog Haven Veterinary & Kennel—not close by, far side of town. Calls a taxi. Slips several bills into my hand.

  “If the treatment will cost more than seventy-five dollars, tell them to put him down.”

  Not sure that I’ve heard this correctly. Standing before the man smiling uncertainly.

  “OK. One hundred dollars. But get an estimate first, before they start some fancy treatment.”

  “’Put him down?’”

  “Put to sleep.”

  Seeing the stunned expression in my face Metti says quickly that the damned little dog has been a drain on his finances for years. First, his daughter had to have a “Frenchie”—two thousand dollars for a puppy from a breeder. Then, medical bills. Turns out that a normal “Frenchie” has to be taken to the vet two, three times a year. Like dumping money down a rat hole. Plus, Brindle isn’t an “obedient” dog—he’s “spoiled rotten.” A bulldog’s life span is only about ten years and this one is almost that old. He’d been supposed to stay with Metti for just a few weeks but five months have passed and now the ex-wife is claiming she has medical problems and the daughter isn’t returning his calls—“So fuck them.”

  Brindle’s skinny tail is hidden between his shivering hindquarters. Big runny eyes are uplifted, searching my face.

  I know. I have heard every word.

  By the time we reach the veterinary I have convinced myself that Metti—(difficult to think of him as Orlando)—is only joking about having Brindle put down. Maybe it’s a test of my integrity, loyalty.

  Certainly, no father would have his daughter’s dog put down without even warning her . . .

  Sad to think, poor Brindle is not a young dog. Now I can see that his small size is misleading. The slightly sidelong, slouching walk is probably arthritis and so it is touching when he tries to trot, to keep up with me. He seems oblivious of the fact that his legs are ridiculously short.

  In the vet’s waiting room we sit, wait. Minutes fraught with terror are stoically endured. A succession of dogs of varying sizes passes by Brindle crouched beneath my chair tugging at his leash not forward to escape but backward against the wall, as if to drag me beneath the chair with him.

  Trusting me with his daughter’s dog . . . Is this proof of Orlando’s faith in me? A wifely sort of duty, here? Wanting to think so.

  At last when the waiting room is nearly empty it is Brindle’s turn. He balks at walking on the floor like a normal dog and must be carried in the arms of a husky young woman in a blue smock who laughs at him—“What a frowning little face! What’s your name?”

  I am invited to accompany them into an examination room. I am impressed with the young woman vet’s skill at handling the tremulous little animal. Her coercion, her power over him is so subtle, Brindle does not even think of rebelling.

  The exam is lengthy and thorough. Eyes, nose, ears, mouth. Lungs, heart. Then, Brindle is taken out of the room for more tests and returns abashed and big-eyed, trembling. How much, how much is this going to cost! I am beginning to be anxious myself.

  My assumption is that Metti will pay by credit card when he’s billed by the vet. He seems not to have given me much money for the taxi and the exam—only about forty dollars, of which I have spent nine dollars on the taxi.

  In my wallet are a number of bills, twenties, fifties, which Metti has given me in impulsive moments. I have not counted them up, only allowed them to accumulate. Not knowing how much money there is in my wallet makes me feel as if the money, and the obligation it would seem to entail, are not quite real.

  Sometimes Metti seems aware of how much money he gives me as if he is keeping track of every dollar. Other times he’s extravagant, negligent as a drunken rich man whose pockets are overflowing with gold coins.

  Here y’are, sweetheart. For you.

  . . . little smile? Yes!

  The young woman is telling me that Brindle has an infection in his left eye—a tear in the cornea has caused an ulcer possibly caused by a scratch, a poke, or a kick. It will take a while to heal. She gave him an injection today and he will have to have antibiotic drops in the eye three times a day for the next five days.

  How will this be possible? I am wondering. Metti would never have time for the treatment, even if he’d been willing to do it. And I could not come to his apartment so frequently. . . . Three times a day!

  Also, the young woman tells me that Brindle has a gradually worsening respiratory condition that should be treated sometime soon.

  Also, Brindle’s toenails were becoming ingrown, so she clipped them.

  Also, she took a blood sample. The results should come in from the lab in a few days, she’ll have the front desk call me.

  Seeing the pained look in my face during this recitation the young woman assures me that over all, Brindle is in good health. His main problem is, it seems that the “sweet little Frenchie” has not been made to exercise. Fatty tissue is beginning to form around his heart. He isn’t an old dog but he has some of the health problems of an older dog.

  “How old is he?”

  “I’d say around five.”

  Five! And Metti is ready to euthanize him.

  Awkwardly I tell the young woman that Brindle isn’t my dog. He belongs to the daughter of a friend, who’s in college and can’t take care of him right now. “That’s why I don’t know how old he is . . . I’m just a friend of the family.”

  “Well, you are Brindle’s friend.”

  Something almost intimate in this remark, so off-the-cuff, casually uttered.

  Briskly now the young woman sets Brindle down on the floor, tugged at his leash and inspired him to walk, waddling on foreshortened legs, out of the examination room and to the front desk. There was a measure of sobriety in the little bulldog’s manner, as if he understood the gravity of the situation and was not going to behave willfully.

  At the desk, I am given a bill: one hundred forty-six dollars. This includes the price of the antibiotic eyedrops.

  Staring at the bill. Shocked.

  Not knowing what to do. . . . Except of course I am not going to tell the smiling young woman that she should put down Brindle.

  Counting the bills in my wallet. Two hundred sixteen dollars. More than anticipated, this is enough to save Brindle.

  Seeing my hesitation the young woman tells me that, if I can’t pay the full price now, I can pay a deposit this evening and the rest later. But I assure her, I have the money. I can afford it.

  Curious probably, that I am paying the bill in cash. Yet, the transaction is completed and we are free to leave.

  In the taxi returning to Metti, I hold Brindle in my arms. The stress of the adventure has exhausted us both. Quivering and licking my hands Brindle begins to doze.

  When I return to Metti with Brindle in my arms Metti stares at the little bulldog astonished. As if he hadn’t expected me to bring Brindle back.

  “Well! Thank you, Violet . . . How much was it?”

  “Seventy dollars. You’d given me seventy-five.”

  “Did I! Well—that’s good news . . .” As if he’d expected the bill to be higher.

  “The vet said his eye has been injured. She gave him an injection. There might be a scratch on the eye, or someone might have kicked him . . .”

  Metti is scarcely listening. So surprised that Brindle has been returned alive, he doesn’t know what to say.

  I tell him that I will have to come over, to give Brindle eyedrops. For five days. But I can do this without bothering him, when he’s at work.

  Metti says that’s fantastic. What a fantastic job Violet has done, taking care of the damned little dog.

  “My daughter will be relieved if she ever finds out.”

  Later, in his bedroom Metti kisses me roughly. Handles me roughly. Affectionate yet chiding as one might cuff a pet that has not yet disobeyed but is considering disobeying. His kisses are stinging, punitive. Wayward hands squeeze my bare shoulder, the nape of my neck. He suspects that I am deserving of punishment but could not have said why.

  WELL, YOU ARE BRINDLE’S FRIEND.

  These kind words, I will cherish in my heart.

  FRIEND OF A FRIEND, HIS KID IS GETTING A NEW CAR. TWELVE-YEAR-OLD Honda Civic they’re getting rid of, for a few hundred dollars Metti will take it off their hands, for me.

  Oh my God thank you, Orlando! Thank you.

  First car entirely mine, in my life.

  I love you.

  FIRST CAR OF MY OWN. IT IS SO KIND OF METTI, SO GENEROUS!—I think of the man with gratitude, a wave of emotion that must mean love.

  Each time he says to me, with a wink, how’re you doing for gasoline, darling?—pressing a bill or two into my hand.

  Now I can drive to the university instead of taking a bus. I can drive to my housecleaning assignments instead of taking a bus. And when Metti summons me, I can drive to his apartment building instead of taking a taxi. Hey. Missing you like hell, babe. The key will be downstairs with the doorman, let yourself in. I’ll be waiting.

  BY THE TIME I ACQUIRE THE HONDA CIVIC, BRINDLE NO LONGER requires eyedrops. But I can drive to Metti’s apartment on weekdays if it isn’t out of my way, to check on the lonely little bulldog. Without Metti knowing.

  Brindle’s left eye has healed but his vision appears to have dimmed. Over the injured cornea, something like a translucent grayish film has grown.

  Once, arriving in the late morning at Metti’s apartment, on a day when Metti is sure to be away, I encounter the new cleaning-woman the Agency has sent. Tall, big-boned, with ash-blond hair, very pale eyelashes and eyebrows, a young woman of about thirty, somewhat coarse skin and no makeup except red lipstick brightly smeared on her mouth.

  Shyly she stammers hello. She speaks with an accent—Polish? She has no idea who I am. Daughter? Girlfriend? (Not wife: she will know that Orlando Metti doesn’t have a wife.) We have never met at the Agency and there is little likelihood that we will.

  But I don’t explain myself, for it is not the cleaning-woman’s business to know who I am.

  “WAS THAT YOU I SAW? I THINK IT WAS.”

  “When? Where?”

  “. . . walking with a guy, looked like he was ‘African American’—or what do they call themselves: ‘black.’ The other day on Division Street.”

  Calculating rapidly when this could have been. For Division Street was near the university’s sprawling north side, intersecting with Cayuga which was where I lived in an old Victorian house that had been converted into rental rooms.

  Except for me, the other tenants in the house were graduate students and of these, most were foreign, and male. A neighbor of mine was a young Pakistani studying engineering, sometimes we walked together for a block or two. But I was not even sure of his name.

  “Just curious. You say you don’t have friends at the university but you looked pretty friendly then, the other day. Who’s the guy?”

  The instinct is to say quickly No one!—no one really. For this is the truth.

  Yet, if the truth is ineptly uttered it can fly back to strike you. It can be deadly.

  And so you said carefully: “I think it must have been one of the Pakistani students who lives in my building. He’s studying electrical engineering.”

  Pakistani. The identification seemed to disappoint Metti, his interest rapidly faded.

  METTI HAS TOLD ME, HIS DAUGHTER IS COMING TO VISIT! AT LAST.

  Staying just a weekend. And when Leila leaves she will be taking the damned dog with her.

  This is surprising news to me. It is not really happy news. For I will miss the little French bulldog. How strange the apartment will be, how quiet, without Brindle barking, skidding on the hardwood floor to greet me when I arrive. To inveigle treats from me, behind Master’s back. And when I leave him, whispering Good night! wriggling his bottom in a paroxysm of dismay.

  Why would I want to come to Orlando Metti’s apartment, if Brindle is not here?

  If Metti has no more need to say: Could you take the dog for a walk?—please.

  BUT THEN, THE DAUGHTER CANCELS THE WEEKEND. THE FATHER’S face darkens like something clotted.

  Wise to avoid the subject. Wise to just get drunk, avoiding all other subjects.

  RARE THAT METTI ASKS ME ABOUT MY LIFE APART FROM HIM. AS if it doesn’t occur to him that there might be a life apart from him.

  Except, in this subdued mood of his. Since the daughter has failed to visit him Metti has been unpredictable.

  “OK, Violet. Tell me.”

  “Tell you—what?”

  “Whatever it is, you’ve never told me.”

  Uneasily I am laughing, in the man’s arms. For in a man’s arms you are never easy.

  “Where do your people live, Violet? You never talk about them.”

  My people! This does not sound like Metti speaking.

  But I think—Shall I tell him? Something.

  Not the sad, sordid tale of my brothers beating a black boy to death. No. Nor the worse tale of my informing on them. My life as a rat.

  “. . . sometimes I find myself thinking about a boy in our neighborhood who died when I was in seventh grade. I don’t know why, I think about him—‘Hadrian Johnson.’”

  There. The name has been uttered. Scarcely daring to breathe I wait for Metti to respond but he does not.

  “You’ve never heard the name?—‘Hadrian Johnson.’”

  Metti thinks. “No. Why should I?”

  “He was a basketball player, I think his team won a state championship . . .”

  Is this true? I don’t think so. Somehow, the possibility comes to me, as a reasonable remark to make.

  “. . . you wouldn’t have heard of him in Catamount Falls. He lived in South Niagara. Where I—where ‘my people’—are from . . .” My voice trails off, uncertain. Is Metti even listening? He has a habit of asking me a question, not listening to the answer, like a man turning on a radio or a TV, comforting background noise.

  “He went to school with my brothers. High school. He played basketball and baseball. His picture was in the paper—in the sports pages. People—some people—were jealous of him . . . There was a fight, Hadrian was attacked, killed. . . . He was only seventeen.”

  My voice is shaking. It is inexplicable to me, why I am telling Orlando Metti this, and why the words are so flat, halting, feeble, lame. As if each word is a pebble sticking in my throat. Oh but everyone loved Hadrian Johnson, he was beautiful.

  “The boys who hurt him hadn’t meant it—really. They’d been drinking. Not Hadrian—I don’t think that he’d been drinking. He’d been bicycling home from his grandmother’s house. The boys were—white boys . . . Hadrian Johnson was black.”

  Metti says nothing. I am hoping that he has fallen asleep. I scarcely dare to move, for fear of waking him.

  “Did I say that already? That he was black? But it wasn’t ‘racial.’ People in my high school got along—mostly . . .”

  Unexpectedly then Metti says, “People think too God-damned much about ‘race.’ Especially ‘African Americans.’ Or whatever they call themselves now.”