over the rim of her spectacles and takes Holfy in:
âUh-huh. We can take tests. But sheâs very sick. You can get some food down her with a syringe butâ
âBut what?
âSheâs very sick. Sheâs suffering.
âSheâs told you that? My cat told you sheâs suffering?
The veterinarian purses her lips, looks at me, straightens her spectacles and looks back to Holfy.
âThatâs my opinion.
We leave her in for overnight tests.
Holfy phones the clinic the next day. Kahlo has cancer of the throat. We take the subway over again with Kahloâs carrier box.
The same veterinarian sees us, her pink surgical gown splattered with dried blood:
âWhat do you want to do?
Holfy waves it all away from herself and walks out.
I wait while the cat gets the injection. She goes slack, her tongue peeping out her mouth playfully.
We take shelter from the rainstorm in the Bloomingdaleâs foyer. Cars and cabs scream at one another in the traffic jam. We step in from the street noise, dripping and steaming with rain. We dry ourselves as best we can.
âWho put her down?
âThe nigger.
âJesus. Donât say that word.
âThe nice vet with the hip orange spectacles wearing the pink gown. Sorry about the N word. Doing what you do, pushing it.
âAnd you were there?
âSure was.
She looks at the empty cat carrier in my hand and smiles painfully. When she recovers herself we set off through the labyrinth of perfumes and clothes. She stops an assistant and asks him about the density of a certain fabric. When she looks doubtful, he raises himself fully erect and mentions its durability. They discuss resistance and fall and contour, defining themselves through the way cloth is cut. Holfy presses a jacket against me and tells me to try it on. The assistant crosses some ill-defined social precipice and looks at me with tragic encouragement. He snaps the jacket in the air and holds it open:
âAdolfo Dominguez.
âPleased to meet you.
He knows the jacket looks silly on me.
âHey itâs nice.
âIt certainly is. It balances discipline with vitality. It gives him a rather potent air. Iâm on the verge of telling them both to go and shite but I think of Kahloâs body soft with death. I slip the jacket on. It has a price tag of $1,125. I feel like a tramp. My trousers are creased and my shoes need a polish. The store is too hot. Holfy tilts her head and tells me to pirouette.
âIt does make a statement, says the assistant, picking at his moustache. With his crisp black suit and neat bow tie he looks like he could be on his way to a wedding if he took the measuring tape off from around his neck. Christmas carols dream of a white Christmas on the in-store music and make me dizzy.
âNo, says Holfy finally as if disappointed in some failure of the Bloomingdaleâs jacket. The assistant leans on his aesthetic temperament, holds the ends of his measuring tape like extravagant lapels and sighs approval at her. Taking the jacket off I see the label is Dominguez and blush.
âI do need lingerie.
âOne floor up, he says without blinking.
Holfy looks at me.
âWant to look around here awhile? We can meet up later.
We agree on the diner and she wipes the last streaks of tears from her face. All the stores are too expensive. But I do buy her something. I get her a soft puppet. Itâs a sheep, Lambchops. I open it and slip my hand inside it and go in search of her.
She is immersed in conversation with the store assistant, a tall elegant woman. They both throw back their heads in laughter. She buys a two-piece. On the way out, she stops and peruses some silver lingerie.
âOpen the cat cage.
She drops several sets into the carrier.
âYouâre stealing?
âBe a detective when you grow up. Stolen lingerie turns me on.
âItâs tagged.
She pulls me close with that waggling middle finger and
âUh-huh. We can take tests. But sheâs very sick. You can get some food down her with a syringe butâ
âBut what?
âSheâs very sick. Sheâs suffering.
âSheâs told you that? My cat told you sheâs suffering?
The veterinarian purses her lips, looks at me, straightens her spectacles and looks back to Holfy.
âThatâs my opinion.
We leave her in for overnight tests.
Holfy phones the clinic the next day. Kahlo has cancer of the throat. We take the subway over again with Kahloâs carrier box.
The same veterinarian sees us, her pink surgical gown splattered with dried blood:
âWhat do you want to do?
Holfy waves it all away from herself and walks out.
I wait while the cat gets the injection. She goes slack, her tongue peeping out her mouth playfully.
We take shelter from the rainstorm in the Bloomingdaleâs foyer. Cars and cabs scream at one another in the traffic jam. We step in from the street noise, dripping and steaming with rain. We dry ourselves as best we can.
âWho put her down?
âThe nigger.
âJesus. Donât say that word.
âThe nice vet with the hip orange spectacles wearing the pink gown. Sorry about the N word. Doing what you do, pushing it.
âAnd you were there?
âSure was.
She looks at the empty cat carrier in my hand and smiles painfully. When she recovers herself we set off through the labyrinth of perfumes and clothes. She stops an assistant and asks him about the density of a certain fabric. When she looks doubtful, he raises himself fully erect and mentions its durability. They discuss resistance and fall and contour, defining themselves through the way cloth is cut. Holfy presses a jacket against me and tells me to try it on. The assistant crosses some ill-defined social precipice and looks at me with tragic encouragement. He snaps the jacket in the air and holds it open:
âAdolfo Dominguez.
âPleased to meet you.
He knows the jacket looks silly on me.
âHey itâs nice.
âIt certainly is. It balances discipline with vitality. It gives him a rather potent air. Iâm on the verge of telling them both to go and shite but I think of Kahloâs body soft with death. I slip the jacket on. It has a price tag of $1,125. I feel like a tramp. My trousers are creased and my shoes need a polish. The store is too hot. Holfy tilts her head and tells me to pirouette.
âIt does make a statement, says the assistant, picking at his moustache. With his crisp black suit and neat bow tie he looks like he could be on his way to a wedding if he took the measuring tape off from around his neck. Christmas carols dream of a white Christmas on the in-store music and make me dizzy.
âNo, says Holfy finally as if disappointed in some failure of the Bloomingdaleâs jacket. The assistant leans on his aesthetic temperament, holds the ends of his measuring tape like extravagant lapels and sighs approval at her. Taking the jacket off I see the label is Dominguez and blush.
âI do need lingerie.
âOne floor up, he says without blinking.
Holfy looks at me.
âWant to look around here awhile? We can meet up later.
We agree on the diner and she wipes the last streaks of tears from her face. All the stores are too expensive. But I do buy her something. I get her a soft puppet. Itâs a sheep, Lambchops. I open it and slip my hand inside it and go in search of her.
She is immersed in conversation with the store assistant, a tall elegant woman. They both throw back their heads in laughter. She buys a two-piece. On the way out, she stops and peruses some silver lingerie.
âOpen the cat cage.
She drops several sets into the carrier.
âYouâre stealing?
âBe a detective when you grow up. Stolen lingerie turns me on.
âItâs tagged.
She pulls me close with that waggling middle finger and
Similar Books
