Pug Hill (10 page)

“Thank you,” I say, at the arrival of my second coffee. I walk away, two coffees in hand. I stop at the coffee preparation station, add Splenda, skim milk, twice; I look at my watch and I don’t have that much time. I hurry out the door, hurry across Central Park, double-fisting coffee and hoping a little bit against hope that there might be some pugs.

There’s one. One pug on her own. I see her owner out of the corner of my eye. He’s this guy I recognize from other times; he’s got these bright white Tretorns on every single time I see him. It always makes me wonder: where do you even find Tretorns these days? It’s not like I wouldn’t like a pair for myself. But more than that, I wonder if this guy has like a million pairs of Tretorns at home, and does he wear a new pair each time he comes to Pug Hill? Or does he just have one pair and wash them after every wearing? And, most importantly, does it never occur to him that sometimes, especially when sneakers are involved, that there is some merit to be found in a little scuffing, a little wear and tear? I pull my attention away from the Tretorns. The Tretorns are not important right now, the guy wearing them is not important; what is important, of course, is that here, today, there is a pug. There’s a pug at Pug Hill, even on a weekday, and that means something, even if everything isn’t a sign.

This pug—her name is Roxy—isn’t a black pug like my little friend Kermit, the one I am so sure likes to wait, just for me, by the tree. But Roxy, one of the longer-legged varieties, not much older than a puppy, is right up there in terms of coolness. And that’s a pretty great height of coolness, when you consider that all pugs, by sheer virtue of the fact that they are pugs, are quite cool. I know Roxy pretty well, because she’s here a lot of the time, because of her owner’s footwear decisions, but most of all, because she’s one of the pugs who often delights in spinning herself in a circle for long periods of time.

I feel peaceful, let’s say, momentarily content, as I watch Roxy run from where she’d been lingering, a yard or two behind the pine tree, quickly over to the spotless Tretorns. I hold my two cups of coffee and think again that one larger coffee would have been better. I think again that I need to be better at confrontation, as much as maybe I need to be better sometimes at just letting things go. One of the coffee cups, after all, can always be put down if need be, if what I want to happen actually happens: if Roxy sprints over to me, eyes wide, tongue lolling out to the side. At which point, once the extra coffee is safely out of the way, I will ask the Tretorn guy, hopefully without even having to make eye contact, if I can pet his pug.

I watch as Roxy spins around, two and half times—pugs, generally, are pretty big fans of spinning themselves around, but Roxy’s got it mastered—and takes off again down the hill. She is so fast and runs with such a sense of purpose. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that she were chasing a ball. But I know better, and not only because I didn’t see any ball thrown, but because I know enough to know that pugs are not the types to go running after a ball.

“Roxy!” the Tretorn guy yells, and Roxy ignores him. Just as they are not the types to go running after a ball, pugs generally are not the types to trip over themselves in order to please their owners. As clear as it is that Roxy is not planning on obeying her owner at present, it also seems pretty clear that she does not plan on running over to me. I think this is too bad, but also expected; Roxy is not an enchanter like Kermit is, Roxy is much more independent in spirit. But I’m happy for the fact that she was here at all and for the fact that I’ve been here for about twenty minutes, just standing here watching her, and the shiny new Tretorn guy has not looked over at me suspiciously, accusingly, as if I am a pug stalker. I don’t think of myself as a pug stalker. It’s different from that, I know, but I also know that standing around so long at Pug Hill without a pug, especially when there’s just one other person here, can make you look like one.

“Roxy!” the Tretorn guy calls again, this time with a more assertive tone. She does not go to him, she turns around and regards him coolly from her vantage point atop an incline. A moment passes, and she sits down regally, her head held high. As the Tretorn guy sees the wisdom in going over to her, and does so, Roxy flips over onto her back to display her belly. I watch as Tretorn guy leans down to clip Roxy’s leash to her harness, and then I’m not so sure that Roxy flipped over like that just to have her belly rubbed. I think she might be peeing.

From my vantage point, I see Tretorn shake his head at Roxy disapprovingly.

“Oh, Roxy,” he says and softly clucks at her. I’m pretty sure she’s peeing.

I smile to myself, silently cheering Roxy, cheering her independence. Before I turn to leave Pug Hill, I nod just barely in Roxy’s direction, not only a stealthy good-bye but also a thank-you to her, for being here this morning.

As I walk up the cement path, in the direction of the museum, I try to continue on the positive track; I try to think of all I do have, instead of thinking something along the lines of how now I don’t have Evan. Really, I have so much more, I remind myself, than a terribly mismatched relationship and a phone call that melted my heart for a moment but really was, in the end, just a phone call. I take a last look over my shoulder and see Roxy spinning around again. That’s a good note to leave on, surely as good as any.
I have the pugs,
I think as I walk toward the museum.
I have them.

I settle into my desk, only a few minutes late. Elliot is the only one here.

“Hi, Elliot,” I say. Really though, I am just saying hi, I am not making a play for him now that one of us is single. The breaking of the traditional morning silence seems to disorient him for a second. He leans back on his stool and looks up at me.

“Hey, Hope,” he says, and his eyes are a little glazed-looking, and I wonder how long he has been here, and if he ever leaves. His eyes are also so green, but I have too many other things to think about. I glance at my Rothko, so intimidating, and think optimistically that focusing on it might be easier now, now that I have all this free space in my mind, now that I don’t have to think anymore about Evan. Before testing that theory out though, there’s something I need to do. I need to sign up for
Overcoming Presentation Anxiety.
I turn to my computer, stare at it for a minute, and open up my Internet Explorer. Before I can type anything, my eyes are drawn to the bottom of the screen, to where the IM man sits, completely still. I wonder if he’s ever going to bounce again. I think probably not. In spite of myself, in spite of all the other things I need to do, I imagine a future scenario in which the IM man could bounce again:

 

EVAN2020:
Hope, I have all your stuff.

 

But that’s an IM that won’t ever come. Because, as I believe I have mentioned, I didn’t have a preponderance of stuff, hardly any, over at Evan’s. This is something I now feel was both indicative of, and resulting in, several problems. I tap on the delete key in my mind, rewriting for myself the imaginary IM from Evan.

 

EVAN2020:
Hope, I have your contact lens case.

 

I imagine to myself that even if it were so much more than my contact lens case, even if it were my entire spring wardrobe, or every book I’ve ever loved and wanted to save, I would type back to him, hastily:

 

And then a pause, and then alone, its own IM:

 

I shudder internally. Certainly, this is not productive, and also, most likely not normal. I turn back to the Internet Explorer, type in what I’ve needed to type in for far too long:
www.newschool.edu
. Okay, I think, taking another breath,
here goes.

For an institution devoted to learning, the New School’s website is vastly confusing. I look up at Elliot, then notice Sergei across the room settling silently into his workstation; no one is paying any attention. Stealthily, I pull my spring bulletin out of my bag and flip to the back for directions. It explains there how to register online for classes, what to type in, where to click and hit send. I find the right page, click on the right buttons. I check the time and duration: Thursday nights at 7:30 P.M., for six weeks.
Okay.
I type, I click, I hit send, and then, it’s done. Or rather, I think, it’s begun. I try very hard not to feel afraid. I remind myself that at the end, the sad egg smiles.
I’m going to do this,
I think. Starting exactly one week from Thursday.

One week,
and then it occurs to me that I should make some initial efforts at filling up the week ahead. In Evan’s absence, that is not going to be taken care of for me anymore. An image of The Union Club flashes into my mind, and I think how that is very much a good thing. I send Pamela a quick e-mail, seeing if she’s free this weekend. I send another to Kara saying I’m looking forward to Chloe’s birthday party the weekend after, even though I’m secretly wondering if there is a way to get out of it. I’ll tell them about Evan, I think, when I see them. I don’t feel inclined at all to e-mail about it now.

Before turning away from the computer, my eyes are drawn again to the bouncing man. The bouncing man who does not bounce. I take one last look at the stillness, the finality. It’s just a little yellow cartoon man. I think how Evan told me once that a woman in her thirties had a better chance of getting struck by lightning than she did of getting married. I’d told him I didn’t think that could possibly be true. He’d winked at me then, in a way I think he must have thought to be charming, and he’d said, “A girl can dream.”

I put my hand on my mouse, click a few clicks, and send the entire IM program to the trash. I forego, for now, the now customary several moments of stealing glances at Elliot, and instead, I swivel my stool around to my easel and reach for my paintbrush. I turn to the task at hand, I turn to the Rothko.

“Okay, so I’ll be sure to get out of here by six, six-thirty at the latest. I’ll pick up the rental car and then come to get you.”

Elliot is on the phone with Claire. It’s easy enough to know when he is on the phone with Claire because, as far as I can tell, she is the only person he ever talks to. But more than that, whenever he talks to her, his voice gets softer, so considerate, and his posture relaxes. I try not to listen. I stare through my magnifying visor at the lower left section of the red and try not to hear anything.

“See you soon,” I hear him say softly, in spite of my best efforts not to. And then, in spite of all my best efforts not to get busted
again
looking over at Elliot, I look up at him right then, just as he’s hanging up the phone. He looks up, and the instant I always dread, but also must always secretly want, is upon us. Our eyes meet, and I smile awkwardly. I am, for some reason, perhaps to quell the awkwardness, perhaps more to quell my curiosity, compelled to ask, in a way that I hope is cheerful, merely conversational, “So, you’re going on a trip?”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that this was, of course, the wrong thing to ask, as asking it simply screams across the Conservation Studio, I WAS LISTENING TO YOUR PERSONAL PHONE CALL BECAUSE, TRY AS I MIGHT, I JUST CAN’T HELP MYSELF!

“Yeah,” Elliot says, “just for the weekend, we’re going fishing.”

Fishing,
I think. In March, in the
cold.
It takes a moment for it to settle in, that Elliot may in fact be a cold weather outdoorsytype person. Thoughts race through my mind:
this could in fact change everything; this could in fact set me free!
But can I, right now, in fact deal with any more change?

“Cool,” I say, and though I know nothing at all about her, mostly because I have steadfastly avoided like the plague asking even the smallest of details about her, I need to know. “Does Claire like fishing?”