by Katja Bartholmess
In the heart of Manhattan, a girl lives with her mother. The child’s name is Ruby Dumont, but her mother affectionately calls her Ruby-Doux. They reside in one of those iconic skyscrapers whose tops look like someone took a sharp knife to a castle in Europe and grafted it onto a high rise building.
“It’s time,” the mother, seated by her daughter’s bedside, reminds her. “You have a big day ahead today.”
At her mother’s gentle touch, Ruby-Doux claps her blue eyes open. The expression on the mother’s face, solemn before, transforms into a radiant smile that brightens her delicate features at the sight of the child awakening.
“A while longer?” Ruby-Doux asks, reluctant to leave her cozy bed, where she lies on her back, her long black hair like loose tentacles around her on the bulging pillow.
“It’s time,” the mother repeats, lifting the down comforter off her daughter as she, herself, rises to standing. Underneath the covers, the little girl is wearing a pair of embroidered damask bloomers that seem to harken from a different era, paired with a pink t-shirt encrusted with rhinestones and a Minnie Mouse print.
With a pout of reproach and her prominent forehead leading the way, Ruby-Doux follows the narrow silhouette of her mother down the lengthy corridor that leads from her room to the grand kitchen. In its center sits a table large enough to seat an orchestra. If you took the time, you’d count eleven vases, all filled with flowers, albeit none of them fresh. In some places, the dark ebony of the wood is blotched with white wax drippings from an assortment of candle holders.
Ruby-Doux clambers up on a wooden chair with clawfoot legs. Two stacked silken bolsters elevate the 5-year-old so she can reach the steaming porcelain cup her mother is placing on a crystal coaster in front of her.
The girl scrunches up her nose.
“What is this?” she asks.
“You know what it is,” her mother replies, lighting a few pieces of yellow copal resin in a saucer. “You drink it every month.”
As the scent of eucalyptus fills the air from the burning copal, Ruby-Doux’s mother slides an earthen pot of honey toward her child.
“It’s your nettle tea,” she says. “Seasoned with lavender blossoms and cayenne.”
With her small fingers, Ruby-Doux rotates the wooden honey dipper in the viscous, golden liquid to then plunge it into her cup. As she stirs, her gaze is fixated on her mother who sits at an angle from her.
After breakfast and bath time, the mother dresses her child in cycling shorts the color of an oil slick on a puddle and a starched cotton blouse whose Victorian collar and intricate lace patterns match her own. While Ruby-Doux fastens the velcro straps of her red Mary Jane sandals, the mother finishes her daughter’s braids before grabbing a dog collar hanging from a hook by the entrance door.
And off they go!
An elevator ride, a train ride, and a ten-minute walk take them to their destination.
“Can you read what the sign says?” the mother asks.
“A-N-I-M-A-L-H-E-A-V-E-N,” Ruby-Doux deciphers, squinting as her pointer finger picks out each letter on the green awning above.
“Bravo,” the mother praises. “Animal Heaven.”
“That’s the loveliest name, yet,” the girl says just as the mother pushes the button labeled “Ring here!”
“We’re here for our appointment,” the mother announces.
The woman behind the counter takes one look at the mother and absently straightens her t-shirt, aware that her own frumpy attire stands in sharp contrast to the meticulously dressed woman and the peculiarly outfitted child.
“Yes,” she says, running her finger down a printed list. “Elizabeth Dumont, you’re here for a small dog?”
“That is indeed so,” the mother confirms.
With Ruby-Doux’s hand clasped a little tighter, they follow the shelter volunteer down a corridor lined with rows of crates on either side. Passing each crate unlocks a new bark until the neon-lit space reverberates with a cacophony of them. The woman points out a few canines she believes might be suitable until she stops in front of the second-to-last crate on the right.
As she turns to face her two visitors, her eyes can’t hide her enthusiasm.
“I have a feeling he might be the one,” she says with a wink to Ruby-Doux.
When she unlocks the crate, a white fluff ball of a Maltese shyly pads toward the gate.
The little girl crouches down and wiggles her fingers. The dog tentatively wags his tail, only to get a fright and scramble to the back of his crate with a high-pitched squeal.
Ruby-Doux looks to her mother, tears welling up in her blue eyes and her little mouth curling into a heartbreaking display of despair.
“I just don’t want him to be scared of me,” she whimpers.
But before her mother can respond, the shelter volunteer interjects, trying to dispel any doubt that this is the right dog for them.
“He’s just a shy boy,” she says to the child. “Don’t take it to heart.”
Addressing the dog, she says: “What is it, sweety? Is that a way to greet your new family?”
The mother gently lifts her daughter off her feet, placing her on her hip with practiced ease.
Once the paperwork is done, the mother retrieves the collar and leash from her purse, and secures them around the dog's neck before bidding their farewells.
As they stroll back to the train station, they pass a dog park.
“Do you want to let him meet the other dogs?” the mother suggests.
Ruby-Doux, wrangling with the leash, gazes up at her mother who stands with her back to the sun, casting a shadow across her daughter’s face.
“I suppose so,” she replies, and together they pass through the gate, stepping onto the wide expanse of sand and grass.
The warm sun has stirred up the aromal of what hundreds and maybe thousands of dogs have left behind.
Ruby-Doux scrunches her nose.
“It smells like doo-doo,” she remarks, prompting her mother to start laughing behind manicured hands. It sounds like crystal bells ringing.
“Indeed, it does,” the mother says.
As the girl unclips the leash, the small dog darts away, pursuing a leisurely thrown baseball.
Her and her mother’s eyes follow their new dog’s antics from the edge of the dog park as the man who tossed the ball ambles over to them.
“This one’s mine,” he says, pointing to a lively yellow Labrador. “Her name’s Duchess.”
The girl remains silent, only her mother slowly turns her head and nods in acknowledgement, absently twisting a silver locket hanging from a long chain around her neck.
When the man’s dog snatches the ball and runs to return it, the white Maltese tries to catch up with her.
“Good girl,” the man praises, retrieving the ball from his dog’s mouth. It looks to be covered in the saliva of a whole pack of canines.
Not minding the grime, he stuffs the ball in his sweatpant pocket and kneels down to pet Ruby-Doux’s dog.
“He seems like a real sweetheart,” the man comments. “What’s his name?”
At that, Ruby-Doux fixes her eyes on the man who is now at her level.
“We don’t give them names,” she states simply, prompting a look of confusion.
“Darling,” her mother interrupts with saccharine cheer. “We don’t say things like that.”
Turning to the owner of Duchess, she says, “You wouldn’t believe the things that sometimes come out of her mouth.”
And with that, she swiftly takes the leash from her daughter’s hand and attaches it to the white dog’s collar.
"Well, it was delightful to meet you, but we have to be off,” she says while the man rises to standing, his brow still furrowed.
He watches them for a moment, his hand scratching the back of his neck. When he calls out after them, mother and daughter have already reached the other side of the gate: “But what is the dog’s name?”
The mother silently raises her arm in a wave and when she gives Ruby-Doux a nudge, the little girl lifts her hand as well.
As they step into the flow of people hustling down the sidewalk, they are out of sight within moments.
“That man was quite nosy,” Ruby-Doux states.
“He was just being friendly,” the mother explains.
Before they enter the train station and board the train uptown, the mother changes her mind and gets herself an espresso and a cup of frothed milk for her daughter.
Side by side, they settle on a green bench facing away from the sidewalk and street, overlooking a row of basketball courts where multiple pickup games are in full swing.
After savoring the last sip of her coffee, the mother rises to fill the empty paper cup at a water fountain and places it in front of the small dog. He eagerly laps it up.
“I’m feeling a little nervous about tonight,” Ruby-Doux says, looking up at her mother, who immediately pulls her close and plants a kiss on her head — right where the hair parts.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” the mother reassures her. “You’ll have the puppy.”
Ruby-Doux stretches her arms around her mother’s slender waist.
“I know,” the child sighs. “But not for the whole time.”
On the train ride home, the white Maltese peeks out over the edge of the mother’s purse, eliciting “Ooohs!” and “Ahhhhs!” from fellow passengers. He truly is an adorable dog.
As they step off the train, dusk starts to settle in. The mother quickens her step until Ruby-Doux has to break into a little jog to keep up.
Upon reaching home, they wash their hands and then the mother gently unravels her daughter’s braids and combs out her hair with a wooden paddle brush.
“It’s time,” the mother then says, guiding her daughter who’s holding the dog by the leash, down the long corridor until they stop in front of a wooden door.
She opens this door that looks like all the other wooden doors in this apartment. Except this one has a second door right behind it. It’s more of a gate, really — fortified with metal bars.
Extracting a skeleton key from the locket around her neck, the mother opens the gate and guides her daughter and the dog inside. After a brief embrace she turns on her heels and locks the gate behind her.
Removing the dog’s collar and leash through the metal bars, she looks at Ruby-Doux who has settled in the solitary chair in the room – similar to the claw-footed ones they have in the kitchen. When her daughter fixes her eyes on her mother from across the room, their bright blue starts to give way to an amber glow. At that, the mother flinches but quickly catches herself as she takes a deep breath, forces a smile and closes the second door.
Passing the entrance door, the mother hangs up the leash and collar. On them, a few strands of the new dog’s white hair. And when you look closer, you’ll see them mingle with hair of other colors. Black among them, and yellow — reminiscent of the dog Duchess they encountered in the park earlier that day.
In the kitchen, the mother brews a pot of pour-over coffee and sits at the table with her cup steaming in front of her.
When unsettling sounds waft over from the end of the corridor and start to fill the space, the mother places her elbows on the table and her palms over her ears.
She doesn’t turn on the light. The only illumination comes through a window behind her, cast by a moon that’s peeking out from between the buildings.
It looks so full tonight.
THE END