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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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Chapter 18
A
few blocks later, I can hear her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she runs after me. I can't believe it. I hadn't pegged this middle-age bird woman as a chaser. She has a good set of lungs too. “Stop, stop!” she screams. I am half a block ahead of her, but she has the energy of the righteous. Like anyone obsessed with their hobby, I wonder if she has left the store abandoned and unlocked. People less scrupulous than I might be in there right now stealing a ton of loot. I wouldn't do that of course. I have rules.
Yes, and you just broke one of them,
my little voice says. I brush it off. Okay, they're more like guidelines and everybody knows guidelines have flexibility. I had a very good reason for stealing the watch, and it's not like I'll ever take anything like this again. I want to look back and see where she is, but pure terror keeps me moving straight ahead. This is a pricey item, and if I'm caught with it I won't get off with just a little warning, that's for sure. I pray to the
Saint of Running in Heels
that hers will catch on a sewer grate, forcing her to give up the chase. Then suddenly, there he is ahead of me, a policeman on a bicycle.
He is perched at the curb, writing furiously in a little black notebook. I wonder what he's writing.
Must stop ringing little bell, it's making it impossible to catch criminals.
I wonder if he ever wants to have children, and if so, does he know all about the crotch-on-bicycle = low-sperm-count thing? I don't have time to be a decent person and warn him; I have to get out of sight before she catches up with him. He isn't much on his own, but he might summon help. I could probably take on him and bird woman, but what good would I be against a swarm of policemen on bicycles, all ringing their little bells?
I run blindly, my watch banging around inside my bag. I can't help myself, I just have to look behind me, and that's when it happens. I slam into a group of tourists stagnating on the sidewalk. There are about fifteen of them tangled up in maps, digital cameras, and cans of mace. Despite the mild weather, they're stuffed into winter jackets and crammed in so close to each other that they have created a human bouncy hut. The harder I try to push through, the higher I bounce.
Their tour guide is a pretty blonde in her twenties, and she's obviously an amateur because she's not anywhere near as aggressive as she needs to be with this group. They are chattering amongst themselves while she desperately tries to speak loud enough for them to hear her.
“Can't hear you,” an old man in front of me shouts to her as he waves his hanky.
“She said watch out for pickpockets,” I whisper, handing him his wallet. “You must have dropped it,” I add, winking at him. His eyes widen when he takes his wallet in his wrinkled hands, and he breaks into a smile when he discovers his cash is still intact. He's even more in awe when I refuse the twenty dollar reward. “Close your ears,” I warn him as I put my fingers in my mouth. In junior high school I was crowned “The Whistle Queen of Upstate New York.” Although I no longer held the title, I still had the talent.
I let out a piercing whistle, and the crowed immediately hushes and parts enough for me to slip through. Even the policeman on the bicycle glances over. “They're all yours,” I said to the grateful guide. My euphoria doesn't last long. The bird woman is still on my tail. While I was slogging through the tourists, she had gone around them, cutting off my lead. I had to hand it to her, she was persistent. She must be the owner of the shop; sales associates wouldn't chase thieves for minimum wage.
But what I really wanted to know was what kind of heels those were that allowed her to sprint three blocks without collapsing in pain, but there wasn't time for that kind of chitchat. I don't realize she's behind me until she reaches up and grabs my hair, yanking off my long black wig. I commend myself for having the foresight to wear it and use her surprise to my advantage. While she stands staring at the mass of black curls in her hands, I run faster then I've ever run in my life.
I don't stop until I reach Times Square a couple of blocks away. By the time I make the descent to the subway, I have already peeled off six blue nails, and by the time the downtown Number 1 arrives, I've managed to scrape off one wing of my butterfly “tattoo.” The train is crowded and I have to do a little shoving to snag an end seat, but it's worth it. I love end seats—you're guaranteed to have only one crazed New Yorker sitting next to you as opposed to being sandwiched between two. I close my eyes and exhale. That was close.
Now that I'm safe, I can relax and review every moment of the heist. My heartbeat is finally slowing down and endorphins are swarming through my body. I have a one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine dollar watch in my purse. I should feel guilty. I should march right down to NYU and register for classes. I could declare a major and actually finish school this time without slitting my wrists. I should do it. I should make one positive step toward changing my life. And I will. I'll do it. Just not today.
Kim is out when I get home, but she's left me a note.
Tiffany's tomorrow?
At first I think I should resist the temptation, but then I realize it's perfect timing. I've just stolen a watch that is so over my stealing limit that, technically, I should lay off shoplifting for at least a couple of months. They say it takes twenty-one days for something to become a habit, so by the end of the month I'll be cured! Tiffany's here I come!
I hide the watch underneath my pillow. I have six days until Valentine's Day. Six days until I see the look of surprise and joy on Ray's face when I place the watch on his beautiful, strong wrist. As I fall asleep, I thank the Saints for my narrow escape and I vow never to steal again. Tiffany's tomorrow. I'm sure it will be a breeze.
“Bedding, silks, and candleholders,” the elevator operator announces as the doors open onto the third floor of Tiffany's. Stepping out onto the third floor is like hanging over the edge of a cliff on a pristine summer day. Unlike the first floor where the merchandise is locked, boxed, and behind glass, the third floor is wide-open territory. “Melanie, move,” Kim says, pushing me out of the elevator.
Don't look at the bins, keep your hands to your side, breathe.
Oh God. Am I breaking out into hives? I feel like I'm breaking into hives. I examine my arms while Kim stops to admire a silk pillow. She casually picks it up and squeezes it before setting it down and walking away.
“How can you do that?” I say out loud.
“How can I do what?” Kim asks.
I'm still standing by her rejected pillow. My hand reaches out to feel its pink shine, but I yank it away just in time.
If you don't touch it, you can't steal it.
“Aren't these beautiful?” Kim cries, holding up a stained-glass night-light. “Just look at these colors,” she croons.
“And it's small enough to fit in your pocket,” I add longingly.
“Why in the world would you want it to fit in your pocket?” Kim asks.
It was getting a little warm in here. I was hoping it was a rhetorical question, but she was still staring at me, waiting for answer. “Backpacking,” I finally manage to squeak out.
“What is wrong with you?” Kim demands moments later as we peruse the linens.
“What do you mean?”
“You're sweating,” she says, staring at my forehead.
It's true. Little beads of sweat are breaking out all over my body. I have to get out of here right now. “I—I need a drink,” I lie.
Kim grabs me by the hand. “I don't believe it,” she says. “I know what's wrong with you.”
My heart starts tripping like a kid with his shoes untied and my sweat gathers more force. I'm about to be outed. She's going to ask me straight up if I'm a klepto and I'm going to confess. I'm almost looking forward to it. You can only play Russian roulette so long before the bullet pierces your skull.
“What?” I squeak.
“You're an alcoholic, aren't you?” Kim says.
I almost crumple with relief. But I note a tiny part of me is disappointed. “Maybe a little one,” I say to her.
“Okay then,” Kim says. “We'll just go for one.”
Or twelve I tell myself. Or twelve.
The week before V-Day goes by in a blur. It doesn't even bother me that Greg Parks doesn't stop in to see me, because Steve Beck comes down with a cold and he's out all week so I have the file room all to myself! I use the freedom to daydream. This was the last week of love ambiguity that I'd ever have to face. After Saturday I'll know exactly where Ray and I stand. I haven't seen him since the show, but that is all about to change. Before I know it, it is Friday night. V-Day is twenty-four hours away and counting. So when the phone rings, I practically jump for it.
“I just want to see what time you'll be here, darling,” my mother sings.
My thoughts slow down like the second hand of a clock. “Time?” I say.
“Yes, darling, you're sitting for the boys this weekend. You didn't forget, did you?”
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Saint of Excuses
to the rescue! I sneeze. “No, no, I didn't forget,” I say in a muffled tone. “I just hope they won't catch my cold.” Mom and Richard are germ freaks.
“Oh God,” my mother says. “Richard!” I hear her yelling. “Richard, she has a cold—do you have a fever?”
I touch my forehead. “I'm a little warm,” I say huskily. “I'll be fine Mom, don't worry.” I let loose a hacking cough. “Don't worry about me and the boys. They'll be fine. As long as I don't have to touch them,” I add. I really am a horrible daughter.
“Not touch them! You have to touch them, darling. That's how they feel love. No, no, I'm sorry. We're going to have to make alternative arrangements.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
“Are you sure?” I say, suppressing another cough. “I was really looking forward to it.”
“Some other time, dear,” my mother says. For good measure I sniffle. I hang up and look toward the heavens. I was going to owe the Saints big time for this. I try not to feel too bad. I would make it up to Mom and Richard. In fact, I'll ring them tomorrow and reschedule for next weekend. Besides, tomorrow is Valentine's Day. A woman can't spend Valentine's Day with dogs! As I'm drifting off to sleep with Ray's new watch underneath my pillow, I throw a quick prayer to the
Saint of Boyfriends on Valentine's Day
. It's been a long time since I've bagged one at this time of the year, and tomorrow I'm finally going to find out which rung of the commitment ladder we're perched on. Thank you
Saint Valentine
! What a wonderful, perfect, romantic, beautiful little holiday!
Chapter 19
W
hat a worthless, despicable, vomit-inducing holiday. I'd like to rip every fucking Hallmark card to shreds and smash every single box of stupid, little, goo-filled hearts. Well, maybe I'll save a few. If ever there was an excuse to stuff your face with chocolate, this would be it.
Why me
, I pray to the
Saint of Commitment-phobic Men
. Why me?
CONTRACT WITH SELF
I, Melanie Zeitgar, being of sound mind and body (minus seven pounds), do solemnly swear: I will never steal again.
3
I manage to convince Ray to meet me at the boathouse by the fountain at noon. This in itself is quite a feat, since he usually sleeps until one. He acquiesces when I get tears in my eyes and say, “I guess I'll go it alone.” It's one of the perks of my brief acting career—I can cry on cue.
It is an electric morning and you can literally feel a charge in the air. New York is alive, and whether your pockets are being picked or stroked, the magic of the city shoots through you like heroin on a hot fudge sundae. The sun has lured dozens of love-starved New Yorkers and tourists into the park. They spread blankets on Sheep's Meadow, sprawl themselves on steps and benches with interlocking knees, and splash in the fountain. It is a rollerblading, jogging, snogging, hot dog slurping, Frisbee throwing, guitar-playing love fest. I feel high, and for once I don't even have the urge to steal. This is it, V-Day, the day I will finally have a clue as to how Ray Arbor really feels about me.
For the big “love reveal” I have “purchased” (stolen) a lightweight tan blazer with huge pockets. In my right pocket, I have the romantic gift—the Omega Seamaster. If Ray is going to gush love at me, I have it on the ready. In my left pocket, however, I have a lighthearted gift. This is in case he has a lighthearted gift for me, or worst possible scenario, he forgets it's Valentine's Day. In that case, my gift will serve as a gentle reminder he has fucked up big-time but at the same time say, “Hey, I'm a girl with a sense of humor,” and how much can you infer from a funny card and a Sweet Tart that says “Bite Me”?
I pace back and forth in front of the boathouse trying to memorize which pocket holds which gift. It may seem simple to remember your right from your left, but one look in Ray's eyes fluster me to the point of stupidity and therefore a heavy review session is a must. Left pocket, L for lighthearted. Shit, I should have used left, L for love. Don't confuse the issue, Melanie. Right pocket, R for romantic. Romantic, romantic, romantic. I long to see the watch on his muscular wrist. I also hope it will help him be a little bit more on time, but it's purely an added benefit.
My reverie is distracted by five young black boys in tuxedos rollerblading to an electric version of “The Love Boat” theme. It's as the crowd cheers and parts that I see them. Roses. Hundreds of them, marching toward me. Although his face is obscured (by a hundred red roses), I recognize Ray's faded Levis and worn brown loafers peeking out from behind them. Even his gait is unique; Ray doesn't walk, he strolls. There is no doubt the man I love is the one behind the mass of roses. My God, I have never seen so many roses. He needs a cart to bring them to me! I thank the
Saint of Men Who Give Flowers
and wipe a tear from my eye. Right, for romantic on the ready!
At this point, women are staring. Jealousy is tattooed to their drooling lips as they throw contemptuous looks to their lovers with their sad single red roses. I am thrilled to the point of sexual excitement. We are going to fuck the minute we get back to my place. The roses will cover every square inch of us. Watch out New York, we're soulmates! Ray is going to become famous and we're going to live in the Dakota. Every morning I'll walk along Central Park West and pick up bagels and raspberries at the nearest market. Ray will brew coffee in his briefs, and our doorman will harbor a secret crush on me. He will smell nice, have all his teeth, and never, ever trip me. I'll wear velvet tops and size 6 jeans. I'll start making my own jewelry. Julia Roberts will discover my necklaces and become my best friend. Our penthouse will face the park, and every morning we'll look out and remember this moment—the moment we made our love official—the moment our lives began.
In a fury of love, I whip out the Omega Seamaster and the card declaring my Love, Love, Love and thrust it at Ray just as he steps out from behind the cart of roses. He steps out from behind the cart of roses, behind the man who is pushing the cart of roses—Ray without even a single red rose. He grins at me and rams me with a pin that says
I'M HORNY
. Before I can retract the watch and the love you, love you, love you card, he grabs them out of my hands, wraps me in a bear hug, and spins me around. I try to grab the card and watch out of his hands, but I am too dizzy and it is too late. Meanwhile, the man with the cart of a hundred roses stops and pegs us as an easy target. He grins at Ray and wiggles his mustache at me.
“A rose for your lady?” he pipes in a thick Indian accent.
“No thanks,” Ray quips, turning his back on him.
“But it's Valentine's Day,” the rose peddler continues. “I'll bet the pretty lady would like a rose. Would you like a rose, pretty lady?”
Ray looks at me.
No, I'd like the whole freaking cart you idiot,
I think while smiling and rolling my eyes like it's a ridiculous question.
Ray steps forward to take charge of the situation. “We don't let Hallmark dictate our relationship, buddy. She doesn't need a rose just because it's the fourteenth of February. I give her roses when I feel like it.”
(Which, so far, would be never.)
“Leave us alone and find some other sucker who worships the God of Advertising, Consumerism, and Love shoved down their throats at $3.50 a card!”
And then he says five little words that instantly turns my blood to dry ice.
“We are barely even dating,” he spits out, looking at me for confirmation.
I know he's expecting me to nod and look appropriately riled at the suggestion that we're a couple, but, barring the last two weeks, I'm too busy running a slideshow through my head of all the sex we've had the past four months. Apparently it's been “nondating” sex.
“Looks like she thinks you are dating,” the peddler says in a singsong voice, pointing to the large card and shiny red package in Ray's hand. I have to hand it to the rose peddler, he's quick. Ray hadn't even noticed what was in his hand.
That's when a Sesame Street book from my childhood,
The Monster at the End of This Book,
flashes through my mind. All through it, Grover pleads with you not to turn the page. “Please, please, please don't turn the page, didn't you hear me? There's a Monster at the End of This Book.” I become Grover pleading with Ray and the Universe and the
Saint of Humiliated Women
not to open the card. God, please no! Don't do it! He's doing it. He's opening the card while the rose peddler sneers at him. No, no, no. It's too late. He's seen “I Love You” not only sprawled in big red letters by evil, corporate Hallmark, but worse—written in indelible ink by none other than yours truly, Melanie Zeitgar, who has died a death of a million paper cuts to the heart before Ray has even opened the stolen eighteen-hundred-dollar Omega Seamaster watch.
“Melanie,” he says quietly. “Wow.” We are sitting on the steps near the fountain, away from the rose peddler, away from the roses. Ray had to physically drag me over here because I had been too humiliated to move. “Wow,” is the first thing he's said in five excruciating minutes. He hasn't even taken the watch out of the box. I am quietly wracking my brain for a way to make this okay. How do I turn this into a casual thing? But it's not casual. I love Ray, don't I? I've spent many dazed and confused years on an assembly line of lukewarm dates—and I've finally found someone who really captures my attention.
Okay, we aren't perfect, but everyone knows relationships are like ill-fitting albeit beautiful shoes. You can still walk in them and love them even if they're not a perfect fit. You run the risk that you'll never grow into them, and there's a chance they'll cripple you for life. Or maybe they're great to dance in, but long walks are out. Or long walks are in, but dancing is out. Or you can go ahead and do everything in them but you'll have big, gaping, bleeding blisters the next day.
Perhaps you'll develop a bunion. And then the pretty shoes will fade and scuff as the years go by, and no matter how hard you polish them you can never restore them to their pristine just-out-of-the-box state. So now, not only do they hurt like hell, but they're starting to fall apart. And that's okay. With Ray I knew all of that and I still wanted to be with him. But now I've blown it. I showed Ray how much I love him and so far all he's said is “Wow.” And let me tell you—it isn't a good wow. It's the kind of “wow” you would utter if you had just seen a tornado in Ohio suck an entire herd of cows into its vortex. “Melanie, I don't know what to say to you right now.”
“Ray,” I say. And then I do something really, really stupid. I know the
Saint of Women Who Chase Men
aren't paying the slightest bit of attention to me when I say this, for if they are they would be striking me down with a bolt of lightning. “It's okay if you don't feel the same right now,” I hear myself say. “It's no big deal.”
He takes my face in his hands. “You're a wonderful woman,” he says. Oh shit. “Any guy would be crazy to have you.” No. No, no, no, no, no. Not any guy. Please, not the “any guy” speech. “You see, I'm in a place in my life where—”
Do you really need to hear the rest of this? Because I don't. I stop listening and focus on a tiny ladybug crawling along the step near my shoe. At first I love her for her tiny red body and bearings of good luck, but then I start to wonder if she is here for Ray—like maybe she's his good luck sign that he's getting rid of me. And then I hate her, and I lift my shoe to squash her. But I can't do it. My foot freezes a few inches above her. And it's not just because ladybugs are cute—they shouldn't even be called ladybugs, they should be called, “buttons” or something that equally discourages squashing. But that's not why I spare her. She lives because of my ambivalence.
While my foot is poised in midsquash position, I consider what the ramifications would be if the
Saint of Ladybugs
had sent her to me as a sign that Ray would change his mind. If that were the case and I killed her, that would be some bad mojo. And before I work my way back to her being an evil messenger of doom, she's already gone. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. I bite my lip and nod like I understand every word Ray is saying. Suddenly he stops talking and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Look, I'm sorry but I have to go. I think we should just cool it for a while, you know?” I nod and am still nodding when he disappears up the steps and around the bend.
I sit for another fifteen minutes and then I run up the stairs from the fountain and head toward the east side of the park, away from our phantom penthouse in the Dakota. Who wants to live in a place where John Lennon was shot anyway? I run and keep running until I end up at the carousel. To my surprise it is running, colorful bobbing horses whirling around to piped-in carnival music. I pay six bucks and pick a bright blue horse—forget the white ones with their lame-ass Prince Charmings galloping in to save the day. Why don't they ever show you the part where the prince gets one whiff of commitment and shrivels into oblivion? Bloody hell. I'll ride my own damn horse. I ride the carousel three times and wander around in case Ray changes his mind and comes looking for me, but he never does. I make my way back to the west side of the park in case he's waiting for me. He's not. On my way home I do what any humiliated woman would do on Valentine's Day. I steal three boxes of chocolate hearts and a quart of vodka. I'm never going to speak to Saint Valentine again.

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