Dorothy on the Rocks (12 page)

Mr. Ed is frantic when I open the door to the apartment. He rushes by me and is down the stairs without a word. I look around for the leash. I have to keep one eye shut and one hand on the countertop to steady myself. I am a wreck. I squint at the clock on the wall. It's 10:17 and I'm drunk as a skunk. I hear three sharp barks from next door. Mr. Ed is furious. I grab the leash and stumble down the stairs. I open the front door of the building and Mr. Ed is gone in a flash.

“Eeeedieee,” I yell. “Wait for me.” Terriers have terrible tempers, and Mr. Ed is fit to be tied, indeed. I am also fit to be tied—as in tied to a chair and beaten with a stick. How did I let this happen? How did I get to be forty-one years old, single, drunk, running after an angry Westie in a pair of ill-fitting Dr. Scholl's at 10:17 on a Saturday night on the Upper West Side of Manhattan?

There is no time to ponder—Mr. Ed is halfway across Columbus Avenue and heading for the park. Terriers not only have tempers, they are also spiteful. I clickity-clack after him in my wooden-soled shoes. The light changes and as I'm about to dart across the avenue, a wall of cars motor toward me forcing me back on the curb. Mr. Ed is half a block ahead of me moving at the speed of light.

“EEEEEEEDD!!!” I scream as loud as I can. The light changes
and I careen across the intersection. My head is spinning and I feel nauseous. I would like nothing better than to sit down and put my head between my knees and hyperventilate for a few minutes. Where is Goodie when I need him? He could fly ahead and knock Mr. Ed out with his magic wand, but no, Goodie has renounced me because I'm living in the movie version of my life. Well if this truly was the movie version of my life, even a bad movie version, I would be richer, younger, and thinner, and I sure as hell wouldn't be chasing a dog. I'd have my servants do that.

I get to the entrance of the park at Eighty-sixth Street. Ed is nowhere in sight. It is well past sunset and streetlamps illuminate the park. I weave along the soccer field, past some benches where two elderly gentlemen sit smoking cigars.

I head toward the Great Lawn. I pat my pockets and find a crushed pack of cigarettes. I get one out but discover I have no matches. Shoot. There is nothing worse than having the drug but not the means of administering it. I consider circling back and asking the cigar-smoking gents for a light but the thought of circling makes me woozy. I put the cigarette between my lips and am momentarily comforted by the warm rush of anticipation. I get to the Great Lawn and start around the perimeter.

“EEED!” I yell into the tranquil evening. I spot an older woman sitting on a bench having a cigarette with her toy poodle perched in her lap. The two of them sport matching pink hair ribbons.

“Excuse me. Do you have a light?” I ask.

She reaches into her bag and produces a half-empty book of matches and hands it to me.

“Here,” she says. “Keep them.”

“Thank you.” Smokers are always happy to accommodate other smokers—we are a band of outcasts linked by our common need.

“Oh,” I add as I turn to leave. “Did you see a little Westie, off the leash? Out on his own?”

“I did see him. He stopped and barked at my Azalea and almost scared her to death.”

“Sorry, he has a thing about poodles. Which direction was he headed?”

“Over towards the castle,” she answers as she snuggles up to Azalea. “Yes, he was a brute, wasn't he? Just a brute,” she baby talks to the trembling poodle.

Belvedere Castle sits on a promontory rock above the Delacorte Theater and is quite a hike from where I stand, especially considering I'm drunk, tired, and wearing inappropriate footwear. The way I feel it might as well be Mt. Everest. I know Mr. Ed is doing this on purpose.

I start toward the castle with Ed's leash draped around my neck. At least I have my cigarettes to keep me company. I go past the theater and around the side and up the path that leads to the back of the castle. As I get to the top I hear a familiar bark to my left and turn down an adjacent path.

“Ed,” I call out. The streetlamps are not as plentiful in this part of the park. I head in the direction of the bark and find myself in the middle of the Ramble. My drunkenness has mellowed into a mild headache and a very dry mouth. I would give anything for a glass of water. I hear voices to my left, and see a man and woman walking hand in hand. That's sweet. A moonlit walk with the one you love.

I amble along, not knowing where I am. I'm Gretel minus Hansel, lost in the forest. I turn down another path and move further into the darkness. A couple of streetlights are out and it's suddenly pitch black. I suspect Ed is hiding from me, playing
his own doggie version of hide-and-seek. I call out again but my mouth is so dry I can hardly muster his name.

Then I hear footsteps behind me and as I turn I'm pushed to the ground. Someone is on top of me breathing into my ear. The breath is foul and acrid.

“Don't move,” a harsh voice says.

I'm too stunned to do anything. My arm is twisted behind my back. I can feel my heart beating against the ground; it feels like it's going to explode. I try to scream, but I have no air because the knee in my back is pressing my lungs flat in my chest. I fear I'm going to pass out, that this is my last moment, my last chance. My drunken mind clears. I try to roll over; my fingernails dig into the ground for leverage. The body on top of me is heavy, too heavy for me to throw off.

“Don't fucking move, you bitch!” the voice hisses. I lie still. Oddly, I flash on an article I read once about people in life-threatening situations and how they don't implore God for help as is widely thought, but rather their mother. That's usually the response. They cry for their mother.

And indeed, “Mother!” is what comes out when I muster enough air. “Help me, Mother.” I pray the couple I saw earlier is still in the vicinity. I kick my legs to make noise and try to scream, but my mouth is too dry and fear has gripped my throat, the only thing I manage is another barely audible “Mother.” I'm sure the couple is too far away by now to hear. A hand grabs my neck, fingers clamp into my windpipe.

“Shut up!” commands the voice. I try to bite the hand but get only a mouthful of glove. I feel the leash being pulled tight around my neck like a noose. I try to get my free hand out from
under my body. My pants are ripped down from the back. I know what is about to happen and I can't stop it. The hand tightens the leash. I can't breathe. I try desperately to relax. I know struggling will make it worse. Panic is the enemy in these situations. At least that's what I have read, but when in the situation it is hard to do anything else. I will myself to relax, and as I do my attacker seems to do the same and air finds its way down my windpipe.

“That's right, just lie still. Try to enjoy it,” says the voice and the hand that has ripped my pants down now moves between my legs. Oh my God. It's going to happen and I can't do a thing.

At that moment loud staccato barks cut through the air coming right in my direction, then snarls and yipes.

“Shit!” the voice grunts. The barks are emphatic and then a low growl and then the hand is pulled from my throat, releasing the noose and my attacker curses in pain. I turn my head to see Mr. Ed biting down hard on the hand that is attached to the body that is holding me hostage. The body picks Mr. Ed up and lobs him into the air.

I roll to my right and get up on my knees in time to see Ed recover his footing and take off after my assailant. I'm too shaken to stand. Mr. Ed's barks are like high-pitched warning signals, mixed with snarls and yelps, and then abruptly they stop. No sound. I taste blood in my mouth. My lip is bleeding and my left wrist is throbbing in pain. I listen for Ed. Nothing. Then I hear footsteps again, this time from the path to my right. My heart almost stops. I frog walk into the underbrush just as a large golden retriever comes bounding toward me.

“Abby!” the owner calls. “Come here, girl.”

I make out a young man coming up the path. Abby, the
retriever, circles back to him. I'm sure this isn't the same person who attacked me. At least, I'm almost sure, and I'm very sure I need help.

“Hello?” I call out, struggling to my feet and pulling my torn pants up as best I can. “Excuse me. Can I walk out of the park with you? I was attacked and I've lost my dog.” I move into what light there is.

“My God!” he says. “What happened?”

I start to shake all over. My teeth chatter. My wrist is still throbbing and my lower back feels like someone hit it with a two-by-four.

“I was attacked and Mr. Ed saved me. He chased the guy off. I heard him barking and then he stopped and I don't know what happened.” Tears are coming out of my eyes, but I'm not conscious of crying. I'm just leaking. The body is 80 percent water and I feel so liquid with fear that very soon I might be reduced to the 20 percent of matter left after all the water leaks out.

“When did this happen?” the young man asks. He is tall, Afro-American, and wearing a Mets cap.

“Five minutes ago, maybe.”

“Look, my name is Spider, and you're going to be all right.”

“Your name is Spider?” I ask, thankful to note I haven't lost my sense of humor. I mean, really, is anyone actually named Spider?

“What direction did they go in?”

“That way. The barking was coming from there.” I point up toward the castle.

“Well, let's go see if we can find your dog.”

“What about the guy that attacked me? What if he's waiting there?”

“He won't be,” Spider says with assurance. “He'll be long gone.”

I follow Spider up the path. I reach out and take hold of his shirttail as we make our way up to the castle. Abby is sniffing and running and sniffing and running. She senses a hunt, and sure enough in a few minutes she starts barking. Spider and I follow and find Mr. Ed lying on his side, laboring to breathe.

“Oh, no, Mr. Ed.” I squat down next to him. “Oh my God, Ed.” I put my head next to his. “You'll be okay, you'll be fine.”

Mr. Ed opens his eyes and looks at me and tries to get up.

“Don't move, Eddie. Stay still,” I say.

Spider squats next to me and puts his hands on Ed's chest. Ed winces in pain, and that is a good sign. At least I hope it is.

“Hey, little guy,” Spider says. “I'm going to pick you up, is that okay?” Ed's eyes are fixed on me.

“It's okay, Ed. Spider's not going to hurt you. He's going to take you home.”

Abby is dancing around us, proud of herself for retrieving what needed to be retrieved. Spider cradles Ed in his arms and carefully gets to his feet. As we make our way out of the park, I hold onto Ed's front paw and tell him everything is going to be fine.

I cringe to think what happened to my little friend. I imagine he was kicked very hard in the chest, and I wonder if, in that moment of fear, Mr. Ed, like me, cried out for his mother.

When we get to the entrance at Central Park West where the traffic is whizzing by, and doormen are standing in front of the luxury buildings that border the park, I begin to breathe again. I realize I haven't taken a full breath since the whole thing started.

“What were you doing in the park at this hour?” Spider asks waiting for the light to change.

“I was looking for Mr. Ed. He got off the leash and took off and I wasn't thinking about the time. You know how it is.”

“I have to say it was pretty crazy to be back there in the Ramble by yourself.”

“You were there by yourself,” I point out in my defense.

“I think that's a little different and don't pretend it isn't. I'm a six-foot-two, 230-pound, twenty-three-year-old male with a black belt in karate.”

“Yeah, but you're a Mets fan,” I say, trying to divert attention from the obvious.

“Don't do that. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I don't want to find you next week after it's too late. Do you hear me?” Spider stops and looks hard at me. Even Mr. Ed turns his head and casts a scolding eye.

“Yes, I hear you.”

“All right?”

“All right,” I say in agreement. The agreement being I am an idiot.

“So where are we headed?” Spider asks, hoisting Ed higher in his arms.

“Halfway down the block,” I say, pointing in the direction of my building. I see someone standing out front smoking a cigarette. It's Jack.

“Mags?” Jack is coming toward us. “What's up? Where were you?”

“In the park with Mr. Ed,” I say trying to keep my voice steady. “We ran into some problems and Spider here helped us out.”

Jack and Spider nod at each other. If Spider's hand were free, they'd probably shake, but Spider is still cradling Mr. Ed.

“Here.” I reach out. “I'll take him now.”

“Maybe you'd better let your friend,” Spider says handing Ed off to Jack. “And I think you should call the police and report this. Okay? I better get going.” Abby is doing a little let's-get-a-move-on dog dance.

“Thanks, Spider. I don't know what else to say. I just . . .” I put my arms around his neck. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Take care, now.” Spider nods at Jack again and then heads down the block toward Amsterdam Avenue.

“Maggie, what is going on?” Jack asks.

“I got attacked in the park and Mr. Ed saved me and in the process got the shit kicked out of him.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Jesus.”

We take Mr. Ed to his apartment. I look down the list of emergency numbers next to Sandy's phone. There is a number for the Westside Animal Hospital. I dial and talk to someone who tells me the location of the twenty-four-hour clinic that will see Mr. Ed. I jot down the address.

“I have to go to the bathroom before we go,” I tell Jack. “And change my pants.”

“Did you get . . . I mean did he?” Jack asks, struck with the possibility. “Oh, Maggie.” He puts his arms around me.