Steel Dog-12

Janesgirl

The dog was a life-sized Janesgirl, big-shouldered and fierce, cast from an enormous quantity of unpainted steel.  Quentin had never noticed the beast guarding the yard, or for that matter, the massive blue house.  Five mailboxes were nailed to an outside wall.  A slip of fresh white paper carried Farah’s name.  Husbands should know their wive’s writing.  Quentin considered the tidy, feminine script.  Doorbells were absent.  A battered screen door covered a windowless front door, unlocked and out of alignment, and stepping through both, he entered a gloomy hallway.

The farthest door wore a big 2.  He didn’t approach.  Uninvited, he didn’t believe in the number.  Quiet retreat seemed best.  But then an upstairs door opened with a crash, and he moved forwards as a reflex, knuckles to the oak as a scrawny fifteen year-old male jumped three steps and raced outdoors.

Quentin watched that drama and then turned back, discovered the apartment door open.

Farah stood beside a perilously tall stack of empty cardboard boxes.

“Quentin,” she said. His name sounded like the answer on a test—a flat, memorized reply to an expected first question.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he began.

And she smiled, suddenly and convincingly.  “No, not at all.  Come inside.  I have to leave soon, but come.”

The apartment was tiny.  Farah admitted as much but mentioned that it came furnished, which was a blessing.  The sofa unfolded into a bed.  Fake plastic pine covered every wall, making the space feel more constrictive.  Framed photos stood on a maple bureau.  The minimal kitchen filled one corner, its refrigerator blocking several inches of the room’s only window.

Quentin lived in a palace by comparison.

“Go on, sit,” she said.  “We have a few minutes.”

Farah wore a matronly dress, one piece with broad straps over her shoulders.  But the hem was higher than most, and she hadn’t bothered with a bra.  He watched her as they sat together.  Calm hands gathered in her lap.  The smile looked genuine, warm but wary.  Her thick black hair was tied in a tight bun.  Eyes looked red.  Had she been crying?  He didn’t ask, didn’t say anything.  Then she asked, “Why are you here, Quentin?”

He didn’t reply.

“Not that I’m sorry to see you.”

“Some mail came for you.”

“What’s that?”

“At my house.  I don’t know why.”

The package and responsibilities were handed over, and she shook the mystery once before flinging it aside.

“A mistake,” was her verdict.

“Probably.”

“Yet you came all the way here,” she said.  “Or is there something more?”

His motivations seemed uncertain.  One polite lie was better.  “I wanted to see how you are.”

She nodded, offering no news about her well being.

“I talked to Vinnie," he said.

“I know.”

Already?  “Are you all right?”

She said, “Yes,” a little too quickly.  Then she seemed to consider her life for a moment before adding, “Yes, I’m quite fine.”

“Good.”

Her hands unwrapped themselves, rubbing bare knees.

“We should go out sometime,” he announced.

Surprise came into her pretty features, then a smile that wasn’t thrilled but didn’t feel false either.  “We should,” the young woman agreed.

Quentin hesitated.

“I like movies.  But I’m sorry to say, I don’t have the money.”

“I can pay,” he offered, suggesting a day and time.

A tiny watch rode Farah’s left wrist.  She looked at its face while rising.  “I need to be going.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Six, next Friday,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Oh wait, no.  I have an appointment.  Let’s make it half past six.”

Meaning to tease, he said, “It’s a date, wife.”

The red eyes grew larger, staring through him.  But then Farah smiled and said, “Husband,” while laughing gently, moving both of them towards the door.

Steel Dog-11

F. Fakoor

Quentin wasn’t married.  No secret needed tending.  With friends and strangers, and particularly with his family, he was never someone’s husband.  Signatures on paper were the least consequential pieces of the world, and an unseen wife was just another young woman standing in the first ranks of a million strangers.

Two months into the marriage, a small package arrived with the usual mail.  Black ink and a steady hand had written two addresses on ivory tape, but Customs stamps and small scale abuses had smudged everything.  What remained included the word Teheran, and beneath that, a strange name attached to Quentin’s address.  “F. Fakoor,” triggered a private, there-and-gone embarrassment for not remembering the name instantly.

He chuckled at his stupidity, but that pleasure melted quickly.  Some conspiracy of incompetence and miscommunication had given him this problem.  Quentin walked to Harp Hall.  Adjacent to the resident shepherd’s apartment was a stale cubicle, complete with a counter and two broken phones and a board full of names and room numbers.  F. Fakoor, 303.   He hadn’t visited the room before, but he was intimate with the terrain.  Two flights of stairs led to the right bare door, and he knocked once, with authority.

A girl emerged.

He knew the face, the body.  The student was just as angry as she had been sitting in the back of Quentin’s little car.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I live here,” said the Viking girl, frowning.

A story wrote itself:  Farah and this blonde beast had become roommates, and lovers, and wasn’t the world amazing?

“I’m looking for Farah,” he admitted.

“Go find Vinnie,” the girl said.  “You want Vinnie.”

Then the door was slammed, and locked.

Vinnie’s door leaked voices.  One voice moved, another held still as it spoke, and then the first voice came again, from a greater distance.  Resisting the urge to write stories, Quentin knocked lightly.

Somebody said, “Yes?”

Vinnie.

“Who is it?” she asked, and he told her.

Another pause became whispers.  Then someone close to the door said, “Please, come in.”

He assumed Farah.

And was wrong.  Bodies jammed the apartment.  Women sat on the furniture, the floor.  Two students were perched on the windowsill, blotting out the afternoon sun.  Everybody stared at the unexpected man.  Everybody looked happy.  Small crimson Bibles rested in hands and laps.  None of those little hands or warm laps belonged to Farah.

“Welcome to Thursday scriptures,” said Vinnie.  “Care to join us?”

Several ladies made appealing sounds.

“No thank you,” he said.

“Your loss,” she said.

He said nothing.

“Where have you been, Quentin?  It’s been ages.”

Which was when he said, “Farah.”

The mood chilled.  Backs straightened, and eyes avoided his gaze.

Except for Vinnie.  She didn’t blink, staring at Quentin when she quietly asked, “What about her?”

“I found something of hers.”  And then he showed everyone a tiny parcel light enough to hold nothing but air--a half-breath carrying kisses or plagues from the far side of the dangerous world.

Vinnie bristled, explaining, “The girl moved.  She’s living off campus.”

“Living where?”

“I don’t know the address,” said the ex-lover.  “It’s an old blue house east of the Clinic, somewhere near Dido.  Oh, and there’s a steel dog sitting in the front yard.”

Steel Dog-10

The Worst Day In Your Life

It was a swift, painless wedding.  The fat judge cheerfully admitted that this was the fourth time she had read the civil vows.  Required documents were signed, copies delivered into appropriate hands, and once a complacent bureaucracy was satisfied, the new wife offered her husband a smooth cheek, accepting his light kiss and the touch of a hand against her silk sleeve,

Vinnie was the happiest participant.  One arm and then the other possessively clung to Persian shoulders.  Vinnie’s mother had donated her living room to the cause, but in dramatic contrast to her daughter, she stood as far from the event as possible, wearing gray clothes and a loving yet dour expression.  She obviously disapproved of this contrived event.  Yet Vinnie wanted this foreign woman, and what was a mother’s love if it couldn’t occasionally surrender the pillars of reason and good sense?

The groom’s duties done, he joined the suffering mother.

“Hello, Quentin.”

“Madam Trent,” he said, offering a deep bow.

“You dressed up for the show.”

“I did.”

“Well, that was one mistake.”

There was a teasing quality to the voice, but not much of one.  The hostess was taller than her daughter—taller than Quentin by two easy inches—and with her androgynous clothes and the ruby-infused steel rings, she made no secret of her love for women.  Vinnie claimed her father was an expensive pipette filled with anonymous, high-quality juice.  And also according to her, this towering lady was wickedly promiscuous—a beauty in youth, and as her looks faded, wealthy enough to buy a brigade of young tongues.

Despite wrinkles and sunspots, Madam Trent remained an attractive, confident soul.  Insatiable?  Or was her spoiled, worshipful daughter jealous of the occasional girlfriend,

“It was good of you, Quentin.  Agreeing to this, donating time.”

He shrugged.

A simple yellow envelope appeared in her hand.  With casual efficiency, Madam Trent passed it to him.

Nothing seemed worth saying.  He folded the envelope once, pushing it into a trousers’ pocket.

Some part of this scene made the woman laugh.  Then with a deeper, much older voice, she said, “You shouldn’t worry.”

Until then, the day was remarkably free of worries.  “I shouldn’t?”

“Most likely not.”

He wanted more conviction in the voice.

Madam Trent smiled slyly.  “Perhaps there’ll be an annulment.”

Wives had two weeks to declare their marriage nonexistent.

“Do you think Farah will?”

“Probably not,” the woman remarked.  “No, I think the future is obvious enough.  In a few months, this precious relationship collapses.  My daughter realizes the truth and feels devastated and exceptionally angry, and needing a reasonable target, I’ll suffer her anger.  Famous old wounds revisited, that sort of shit.”

Daughter and lover were across the room, talking politely to the judge.

“Farah doesn’t love Vinnie,” Quentin guessed.

“That too,” said Madam Trent.

He waited for more enlightenment.

Then she touched his forearm—a gesture identical to one often used by Vinnie—and with a careful, serious tone, she said, “Mr. Maurus.  I promise you.  This won’t be the worst day in your life.”

Steel Dog-9

What Is Best

“You haven’t given us your answer,” the stranger said,

Quentin was standing on the narrow walk, between piles of past snows.  “I haven’t,” he agreed.

“You said one night.  You needed one night.”  Farah was dressed for the cold but trembling.  How long had she been waiting on the front porch, imagining his arrival?  “It’s been three days.”

“I know.”

“Will you do this?” she had to know.

He put on a nervous smile.

“This isn’t funny,” she warned.

Her Brit-Latin was impeccable.  The accent was thin, making the voice more intriguing.

“It’s not funny,” he agreed.

The butter-colored scarf covered her mouth and proud nose, and those sad dark and very red eyes looked teary.

“It’s a lot to ask,” he reminded her.

She didn’t speak.

Climbing concrete stairs, Quentin unlocked the front door and led her inside.  Stomping off snow, he asked, “Where’s Vinnie?”

“At home, worrying.”  Farah unwrapped the scarf.  Her face was rough and flushed.  She watched Quentin’s face, yet managed to avoid his eyes.

“Let’s talk,” he said.  “Just us.”

She nodded but wouldn’t climb the stairs with him.

“Come on,” he insisted.

She followed, slowly.

Quentin held the narrow apartment door and then offered to take her coat, watching her sit on his old brown sofa, her coat still on and buttoned. He threw off his winter gear and sat on the lumpy reading chair, facing her.

“I want to help,” he began.

The rabbit fur in front of her mouth was wagging back and forth.  His guest was attempting to clear her head with oxygen.  “Vinnie claims you’re a noble person.”

Praise wormed its way inside him. Yet Quentin said nothing, and the silence worried both of them.  She stared at all of him, trying to piece together his character from a lover’s opinions and her own few glimpses.  Then into that regal Persian face came an expression of resigned horror, and as if she had known him forever, she said, “But you’re an honorable person.  And that’s the problem.”

Quentin waited silently.

“Two other people know what’s best,” said Farah.  “But that isn’t reason enough to believe us.  Am I right about that, Quentin?  My wishes don’t matter.  Vinnie’s opinion has no weight.  There’s a correct decision here, but it lives outside us.  And it lives outside you too.”

He wasn’t breathing.

“You can’t decide what to do but you’re actively building a list, I’m guessing.  The good and the bad, each in a tidy column, and when you have enough data, you can comfortably decipher what is best.  Yes?”

“I want what’s right,” he agreed.

“Oh, I understand.  Everyone wishes to make the wise decision.”  The voice was flat, chilled.  “If I’m forced to leave, there is no decision.  I'll return home.  I won’t fight the rules and I’ll take up a life that I don’t desire, and the person you see...well, she dies.  And to be honest, I don’t know if that’s a bad thing.  Life will surprise us.  It does.  Against all expectations, Persia might prove joyous and loving.  Or maybe I’ll suffer a miserable existence, but my pain will serve a greater function.  That is a possibility.  Yes?  A very noble, very Christian sensibility.”

Suddenly Quentin was breathing hard.

“Except I solemnly believe something else,” she continued.  “On this day, my desire is to live in this country of women with my good friends.  And that’s why I’m asking for your signature on several pieces of paper, and later, several brief meetings with overworked bureaucrats who have no stake in my life, or in yours."

A lump of snow was midway between them, melting into the green carpet.

“If I could, I’d give you money for your troubles.  But my family considers me a heretic, and as it is, I can barely afford my tuition.”

“I don’t want your money,” he said.

“What do you want?”  And then her hands lifted, and with her face tight and pale, she unfastened the highest button of her coat.

That expression was awful, and he said, “Don’t do that."

The hands dropped.  “That refusal sounded a little more certain.  Am I right?”

Quentin sighed.

“So let’s return to the topic of money,” she continued.  “We know someone blessed with a rather wealthy mother.  So for your trouble and pain...a little gift of appreciation, yes…?”

Steel Dog-8

Sword Bearer

Quentin was seven when family friends staged a wedding for their oldest daughter.  The bride’s little sister was an adorable redhead, the perfect ring bearer, but the family had a shortage of boys.  Quentin was drafted to carry the warrior’s blade.  The job was an honor and a grave responsibility.  The family was Old Church, meaning ceremonies heaped upon ceremonies, but the boy was thrilled to wield the sword that would defend home and nation, and he tolerated the mock-uniform with its 16th Century flourishes and the boots that should have been a half-size smaller.  With heels slipping and arms heavy, he accompanied the redhead past hundreds of well-wishers, and after surrendering the sword to the liquor-infused groom, he was free to stand to one side, serving as another decoration.

Fifteen years later, bride and sword bearer crossed paths.

“Except this isn’t by accident,” the bride confessed.  “I heard you were in town, so I looked up your address.  We don’t live that far apart.  Think of the coincidence."

She was drinking baneh wine.  The ex-sword bearer was watching his ice melting into his mineral water.  Dinner was done, dessert on its way.  There wasn’t going to be any movie, and thank goodness no dancing either.

“You weren’t just driving past my house,” Quentin ventured.

“No, that wasn’t a coincidence.”

“You were hunting me.”

She seemed offended.  But every reflex was squelched, and she even smiled, saying, “You’ve grown up nicely.”

Not by some measures.  Quentin’s hair was shaggy, the beard too.  His best clothes were in the wash, but at least he was clean and relaxed.

She said his name, as if practicing the pronunciation.

He smiled at her.

Looking off into a theatrical distance, she said, “You remember my husband.”

The groom was a puffy veteran inside a much-let-out uniform.  He was drunk at the ceremony, so drunk that when he swung the ceremonial sword, he struck his bride.  He never realized that the blunted blade gave her pregnant belly a glancing kiss.  Then after a reception full of drink and sweat, he collapsed.  Other men had to carry the limp husband into the car, one of the bride’s friends declaring, “That’s a good man.  He lets himself get moved around like luggage.”

Quentin remembered all that.

His companion saw something in his face.  “I do love my husband,” she insisted.

“Good.”

“But I don’t want him,” she added.  “Not physically.”

“That happens,” he said.

Dessert arrived, cold and sweet.  He picked up his spoon and set it down again.

“Eat,” she said.

The bride was as old now as her husband had been then.  Fifteen years and several unmentioned children later, she looked worn down, pretty still but puffy, pleasant when she wanted to be but always leaking disappointment and simple meanness.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Quentin?”

Inside his head, he was dropping ice cream onto a stretched, scarred landscape, and the imagined woman ordered him to lick her tummy clean.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

The moment demanded genius and a small, useful cruelty.

“How’s your little sister?” he asked.

“What?”

Quentin lifted the spoon.  “Is she still a redhead?  Because I really like redheads.”

Steel Dog-7

Mandatory

Vinnie explained; Farah beseeched.

And to varying degrees, Quentin listened.

The requirements were few but mandatory.  A legal agent had to preside over the ceremony.  Vinnie offered her mother’s good friend, a very respectable retired judge.  Papers needed to be signed and filed, but those details would be handled by her family’s exceptional attorney.  Meetings with an immigration officer came every six months—perfunctory interviews to satisfy official curiosity.  Some shared address was critical, but a rented box at the post office was good enough.  The pitfalls were few.  Since the foreign national was female, nobody would care what the couple were doing and not doing.  Vinnie found various ways to make that promise.  And once the marriage survived two years, citizenship was forever.  Then they would have a civil divorce, amicably balanced on two more signatures.  And the final point:  Quentin should find his own lawyer, although Vinnie knew several good ladies. "A binding prenuptial agreement," she said. "That'll protect all of your considerable wealth."

That last bit deserved a hard laugh.

During these explanations, Farah would pick her moments to touch his hand or his knee, inserting little statements about how much she loved Queensland and its good people and how thoroughly she despised her homeland.  “Old and sick,” she called Persia.  “Frail and angry.  Women are secondary citizens, if that.  When I am there, I’m property.  To my father, to any prospective husband, I’m a bad cook and a wasted womb.”

Exhausted by his importance, Quentin lifted one hand.  The women didn’t notice immediately.  But once their words stopped, he asked, “Are you a couple?”

They were.  Seeing her chance, Vinnie crossed to the sofa, linking arms with her most recent lover.

Farah squirmed between them.  She seemed like a shy person, which made her endearing.  Or she was acting this way because she wanted to charm this strange man.  It was impossible to know what the dipped face and abrupt silence meant, and he had no clue about the thoughts roiling inside her.

Another obvious question demanded attention.

“Why me?”

Quentin could have guessed the answers:  He wasn’t married or engaged.  He didn’t have a criminal record, and Vinnie couldn’t recall any dangerous rumors.  So obviously, if he was bad, at least he was discretely wicked.  Which was perfect.  Keeping the private private was important, and Quentin made the appropriate noise about doing just that.  Which led to some introspection, each person quietly dwelling on the nature of secrets.

Then Vinnie slipped her arm around her girlfriend.  The exotic face smiled while the feminine body slowly leaned back, allowing Vinnie’s long hand to brush across her blouse and rounded breast.

“I need to think,” Quentin confessed.

Braced for that response, the women nodded, perhaps hoping another twenty seconds of reflection would allow him to properly align his mind.

But no, he said, “I’ll have to dream on this.”

Panic was the next strategy.  “We have deadlines,” Vinnie blurted.  “With the applications and necessary forms, we need to start soon.”

“How soon?”

“Next week.”

Quentin winced.

But Farah took the role of understanding soul.  With reassuring pat, she agreed, “This is an enormous thing to ask.”

It was an awful lot, yes.

“But you are our best hope.”

Jealousy pricked.  “Is there another candidate?”

Hesitation.  Then Vinnie insisted, “There’s nobody but you.”

Because someone else had turned them down.  That’s why the timetable, the urgency.  But what man would agree to this?  The women gained a lot, while the groom walked away with nothing but the chance to play the charitable angel.

“Tomorrow,” seemed like the perfect promise.

“Thank you,” his potential bride gushed, hugging him, arms smothering, warm and damp with perspiration.  Then Vinnie reached over Farah to stroke his back, and because he could get away with it, Quentin let his hand slide up the silky blouse, fingering the broad strap of the bra and the padded cup, and behind it, the hardened beginnings of a broad nipple.