us.
Working in a practiced methodical sequence, he wrapped the trimmings in waxed paper and the waxed paper in a sheet of brown butcher paper which he expertly folded into a neat, tight, easily concealed packet before taping it and handing it toward me. “Only two dollars.”
“Two dollars?”
“For your dog,” he said.
I thought he’d been offering to give them away and suddenly I felt like a total fool. All at once it struck me that whatever had made me naïve enough to think the scraps might be free was the same impulse that had landed me in my current situation: out of work, living from friend to friend, missing a woman in another city, a woman who’d already given up on me.
“I don’t have a dog,” I told him.
“You just said you had one.”
“I used to have one.”
“You forgot you don’t have a dog anymore?” He couldn’t get over that someone could make such a mistake.
“I had a dog but he died. I still say yes out of force of habit.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your dog.”
“Thanks,” I said. “He was a schnauzer named Yappy. Happy Yappy I used to call him. He sure would have liked those scraps.”
“Maybe you have a cat?”
“No cat,” I said.
“You sure now?”
“Positive.”
“Want a garlicky pickle with that?”
“How much?” I asked. I’d learned my lesson.
“Comes with the sandwich.”
Alms
After Mr. Kronner’s daily constitutional down Eighty-sixth to the river and back, Mattie wheeled him under the scaffolding and into the lobby. Workmen had been refurbishing the building for months and the dark scaffolding had come to seem a permanent feature. At least they’d installed an automatic door and a ramp so that Mattie no longer needed help pushing the chair through the entrance and up the short flight of stairs to the elevator. Valentine, the doorman, still would usually push the chair along with her as if the incline required his added muscle. She and Valentine had a running conversation going in which Valentine would tell her new places in Astoria where he’d find fruits and fish from the islands.
“Hey, Chicken Legs, guess what I find at the market?” he’d ask. “Old wife! Fresh on ice, not smelling, not frozen. Never thought I’d see old wife in this city, me son.”
Valentine was from St. Croix. Back home she’d heard that the Crucians thought they were better than Tortolans. “Just because they on Uncle Sammy’s dole,” her mother used to say. But here in New York, it was as if she and Valentine had been childhood friends. Mattie didn’t mind that he called her Chicken Legs; she knew that it was his way of giving a compliment.
Today, Valentine merely waved from where he stood at the curb tugging at the leashes of three shivering whippets while hailing a cab for Mrs. Takamura so that she could take her dogs for a run in Central Park.
At the service elevator, which Mattie always used when she was pushing the chair, one of the men working on the building held the elevator door while Mattie wheeled in Mr. Kronner.
“Excuse us, sorry, thank you,” Mattie said as she accidentally rolled the chair over the man’s foot.
The man nodded, as if apologizing for not speaking because his mouth was full—he was chewing a sandwich. He squeezed on behind Mattie and the door closed.
He was wearing a Glidden’s paper painter’s cap and jeans that looked clean even though there were spots from faded white paint or maybe from bleach along the thighs. In the loop below his right pocket, a claw hammer hung. Otherwise, he was nondescript, one of those mutt-like guys with a stubbly beard and an acne-pitted face who could have been Hispanic or black or Mideastern or even white. It wasn’t how he looked that was important so much as how he didn’t look—not one of the homeless that you couldn’t walk down Eighty-sixth without being accosted by, begging for a handout or trying to sell you StreetWise , or some paperback book or magazine
Working in a practiced methodical sequence, he wrapped the trimmings in waxed paper and the waxed paper in a sheet of brown butcher paper which he expertly folded into a neat, tight, easily concealed packet before taping it and handing it toward me. “Only two dollars.”
“Two dollars?”
“For your dog,” he said.
I thought he’d been offering to give them away and suddenly I felt like a total fool. All at once it struck me that whatever had made me naïve enough to think the scraps might be free was the same impulse that had landed me in my current situation: out of work, living from friend to friend, missing a woman in another city, a woman who’d already given up on me.
“I don’t have a dog,” I told him.
“You just said you had one.”
“I used to have one.”
“You forgot you don’t have a dog anymore?” He couldn’t get over that someone could make such a mistake.
“I had a dog but he died. I still say yes out of force of habit.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your dog.”
“Thanks,” I said. “He was a schnauzer named Yappy. Happy Yappy I used to call him. He sure would have liked those scraps.”
“Maybe you have a cat?”
“No cat,” I said.
“You sure now?”
“Positive.”
“Want a garlicky pickle with that?”
“How much?” I asked. I’d learned my lesson.
“Comes with the sandwich.”
Alms
After Mr. Kronner’s daily constitutional down Eighty-sixth to the river and back, Mattie wheeled him under the scaffolding and into the lobby. Workmen had been refurbishing the building for months and the dark scaffolding had come to seem a permanent feature. At least they’d installed an automatic door and a ramp so that Mattie no longer needed help pushing the chair through the entrance and up the short flight of stairs to the elevator. Valentine, the doorman, still would usually push the chair along with her as if the incline required his added muscle. She and Valentine had a running conversation going in which Valentine would tell her new places in Astoria where he’d find fruits and fish from the islands.
“Hey, Chicken Legs, guess what I find at the market?” he’d ask. “Old wife! Fresh on ice, not smelling, not frozen. Never thought I’d see old wife in this city, me son.”
Valentine was from St. Croix. Back home she’d heard that the Crucians thought they were better than Tortolans. “Just because they on Uncle Sammy’s dole,” her mother used to say. But here in New York, it was as if she and Valentine had been childhood friends. Mattie didn’t mind that he called her Chicken Legs; she knew that it was his way of giving a compliment.
Today, Valentine merely waved from where he stood at the curb tugging at the leashes of three shivering whippets while hailing a cab for Mrs. Takamura so that she could take her dogs for a run in Central Park.
At the service elevator, which Mattie always used when she was pushing the chair, one of the men working on the building held the elevator door while Mattie wheeled in Mr. Kronner.
“Excuse us, sorry, thank you,” Mattie said as she accidentally rolled the chair over the man’s foot.
The man nodded, as if apologizing for not speaking because his mouth was full—he was chewing a sandwich. He squeezed on behind Mattie and the door closed.
He was wearing a Glidden’s paper painter’s cap and jeans that looked clean even though there were spots from faded white paint or maybe from bleach along the thighs. In the loop below his right pocket, a claw hammer hung. Otherwise, he was nondescript, one of those mutt-like guys with a stubbly beard and an acne-pitted face who could have been Hispanic or black or Mideastern or even white. It wasn’t how he looked that was important so much as how he didn’t look—not one of the homeless that you couldn’t walk down Eighty-sixth without being accosted by, begging for a handout or trying to sell you StreetWise , or some paperback book or magazine
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