âWeâll pay double.â
âOkay,â I said, thinking how craziness on the outside feels so much like craziness in prison.
âWhat do you plan to do?â Ralph asked suspiciously, as if he envisioned electrodes and hypodermic needles.
First, I cleaned their apartment. Cleaning a place is how I introduce myself to it. I sanded the expensive, now-scratchedup parquet floor. I introduced the worried men to Natureâs Miracle, known for getting rid of secret dog smells so they wonât piss where they have before. It felt so good to be scrubbing until my hands were raw. The only reason I didnât take cleaning-lady jobs when I got paroled was because I fold clothes and bedding and towels like shit. I can never get a corner to exactly match another, or thereâs always a lump in the pants seam even if I think Iâve got it creased and smoothed out.
Ralph and Evan were intimidated but grateful for me. Pookie tried, at first, to win me over by prancing wherever Iâd just scrubbed the floor, leaving dirty, wet paw prints. She leaned over and licked my face and tried humping my back, all while Ralph and Evan giggled at her antics. I completely ignored her. She was one of the sleekest, most gorgeous poodles Iâd ever seen, but sheâd taken advantage of those two sweet, dotty men and she couldnât be allowed to do that. In the weeks that followed I walked her on a chain collar, locked her in her crate except when it was playtime, and gave her a treat or a toy when she shut up.
At first it was all La Traviata and La Bohème with wails, moans, and silent suffering. Sheâd turn her back whenever one of us walked in the room. I know Evan and Ralph consideredfiring me more than once, but fundamentally, they were relieved. Sometimes, bored with her own divaness and phony sorrow, sheâd scratch politely on her double-locked crate. Iâd let her out, and sheâd approach one of the men and press her head against his leg. They were not allowed to kneel down to their queenâshe was nearly taller than them as it was and I didnât want her getting off on her height. Poodles are indeed smart, and Pookie the socialite caught on quickly that, as long as I was around, her reign was over, or at least diminished. But she didnât hate me. We ladies have an understanding. And I let her run like an antelope free of it all at least once a day in any unsupervised park I could find.
A LETTER TO BATYA SHULAMIT
Dear Batya Shulamit,
You probably will never see this because Leonard will be censoring your mail. Heâll take a glimpse at my handwriting and know right away. I donât own a computer yet, but even if I did, no one would let me have your email. Since I was an artist I still like the feel of pen on paper. Itâs almost like eating spaghetti, swimming, or pulling long fingernails through sand. I know I sound stupid. My letters from prison were much less ootchy-kootchy than this, but they always came back unopened. If I was the daughter of a convict Iâd be curious about her life and Iâd search for the letters full of apologies and sorrow.
Iâm writing to tell you I looked up your names in the dictionary, and they are well thought out choices. It was brave for the Pharaohâs daughter to rescue a Jewish baby from the river. Is your second name connected to the Queen of Sheba? That beautiful black woman who shows up in the Song of Songs? You know all the answers but you canât reach me. When I was involved in my research Batya appeared to me in a kind of brick red and Shulamit in Caribbean blue. I have a condition where I see numbers and letters in colors. Not that youâd give a shit. Iâmjust trying to do what psychologists call ârelate.â I wish Leonard would let you read this so we could begin to take down the monster image of me just a little. Our lunch turned into two dinosaurs ripping each other to shreds over a pat of