I was to stay and look after the place ‘for the foreseeable’, according to Frank Junior. I think that meant until Margot died, although nobody said it out loud. Apparently the realtor had said that nobody would want to rent it as it stood, and it was a little unseemly to gut it before the ‘foreseeable’ so I had been awarded the role of temporary caretaker. Margot also made the point several times that it would help Dean Martin to have some stability while he adjusted to his new situation. I’m not sure Frank Junior felt that the dog’s mental wellbeing was quite as high on his own list of concerns.
She took only two suitcases and wore one of her favourite suits to travel, the jade bouclé jacket and skirt with the matching pillbox hat. I dressed it with a midnight blue Saint-Laurent scarf knotted around her narrow neck, to disguise the way it now emerged, painfully bony, from her collar, and dug out the turquoise cabochon earrings as a final touch. I worried that she might be too hot but she seemed to have grown ever tinier and frailer and complained of cold even on the warmest of days. I stood on the sidewalk outside, Dean Martin in my arms, watching as her son and Vincent oversaw the packing up of her cases. She checked that they had her jewellery boxes – she planned to give some of the more valuable items to Frank Junior’s wife, and some to Vincent ‘for when he gets married’ and then, apparently satisfied that they were safely stowed, she walked over to me slowly, leaning heavily on her stick. ‘Now. Dear. I’ve left you a letter with all my instructions. I haven’t told Ashok I’m going – I don’t want any fuss. But I have left a little something for him in the kitchen. I’d be grateful if you could pass it on once we’re gone.’
I nodded.
‘I’ve written everything you need for Dean Martin in a separate letter. It’s very important that you stick to his routine. It’s how he likes things.’
‘You mustn’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s happy.’
‘And none of those liver treats. He begs for them but they do make him sick.’
‘No liver treats.’
Margot coughed, perhaps with the effort of talking, and waited for a moment until she could be sure of her breath. She steadied herself on her cane and looked up at the building that had housed her for more than half a century, holding up a frail hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Then she turned stiffly and surveyed Central Park, the view that had been hers for so long.
Frank Junior was calling from the car, stooping so that he could see us more clearly. His wife stood beside the passenger door in her pale blue windbreaker, her hands pressed together with anxiety. She was apparently not a woman who liked the big city.
‘Mom?’
‘One moment, thank you, dear.’
Margot moved so that she stood directly in front of me. She reached out a hand, and as I held him, she stroked his head, three, four times with her thin, marbled fingers. ‘You’re a good fellow, aren’t you, Dean Martin?’ she said softly. ‘A very good fellow.’
The dog gazed back at her, rapt.
‘You really are the most handsome boy.’ Her voice cracked on the last word.
The dog licked her palm and she stepped forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, her eyes closing and her lips pressed to him just a moment too long so that his wonky eyes bulged and his paws paddled against her. Her face sagged momentarily.
‘I – I could bring him to see you.’
She kept her face to his, her eyes shut, oblivious to the noise and the traffic and the people around her.
‘Did you hear what I said, Margot? I mean once you’re settled we could get the train out and –’
She straightened up and opened her eyes, glancing down for a moment.
‘No. Thank you.’
Before I could say anything else, she turned away. ‘Now, take him for a walk, please, dear. I don’t want him to see me go.’
Her son had climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. He offered her a hand but she waved him away. I thought I saw her blink back tears, but it was hard to tell as my own eyes seemed to be streaming.
‘Thank you, Margot,’ I called. ‘For everything.’
She shook her head, her lips set. ‘Now go. Please, dear.’ She turned towards the car just as her son approached, his hand outstretched towards her, and I don’t know what she did next because I put Dean Martin on the sidewalk as she had told me and walked briskly towards Central Park, my head down, ignoring the stares of the curious people wondering why a girl in glittery hot-pants and a purple silk bomber jacket was crying openly at eleven o’clock in the morning.
I walked for as long as Dean Martin’s little legs could stand. And then when he stopped, mutinously, near the Azalea Pond, his tiny pink tongue hanging out and one eye drooping slightly, I picked him up and carried him, my eyes swollen with tears, my chest one breath away from another racking sob.
I have never really been an animal person. But I suddenly understood what comfort could be gained from burying your face in the soft pelt of another creature, the consolation of the many small tasks that you’re obliged to perform for its welfare.
‘Mrs De Witt off on vacation?’ Ashok was behind his desk as I entered, my head down and my blue plastic sunglasses on.
I didn’t have the energy to tell him just yet. ‘Yup.’
‘She never told me to cancel her papers. I’d better get on to it.’ He shook his head, reaching for a ledger. ‘Know when she’s coming home?’
‘Let me get back to you.’
I walked upstairs slowly, the little dog not moving in my arms, as if he were afraid that if he did he might be asked to use his legs again. And then I let myself into the apartment.
It was dead silent, already shot through with her absence in a way it had never been when she was in the hospital, dust motes settling in the still, warm air. In a matter of months, I thought, somebody else would live here, tearing off the 1960s wallpaper, scrapping the smoked-glass furniture. It would be transformed, redesigned, a bolthole for busy executives or a terrifyingly wealthy family with small children. The thought of it made me feel hollow inside.
I gave Dean Martin some water and a handful of kibble as a treat, then made my way slowly through the apartment, with its clothes and its hats and its walls of memories, and told myself not to think about the sad things but about the delight on the old woman’s face at the prospect of living out her days with her only child. It was a joy that had been transformative, lifting her tired features and making her eyes shine. It made me wonder how much all this stuff, all this memorabilia, had been her way of insulating herself from the lengthy pain of his absence.
Margot De Witt, style queen, fashion editor extraordinaire, woman ahead of her time, had built a wall, a lovely, gaudy, multi-coloured wall, to tell herself it had all been for something. And the moment he had returned to her she had demolished it without a backward glance.
Some time later, when my tears had slowed to intermittent hiccups, I picked the first envelope off the table and opened it. It was written in Margot’s beautiful, looping script, a remnant of an age when children were judged by their penmanship. As promised, it contained details of the little dog’s preferred diet, times of eating, veterinary needs, vaccinations, flea-prevention and worming schedules. It told me where to find his various winter coats – there were different ones for rain, wind and snow – and his favourite brand of shampoo. He would also require his teeth descaling, his ears cleaning and – I winced – his anal glands emptying.
‘She didn’t tell me that when she asked me to take you on,’ I said to him, and he lifted his head, groaned and lowered it again.
Further on, she gave details of where any post should be forwarded, the contact details for the packing company – the items they were not to take were to remain in her bedroom and I should write a note and pin it to the door to tell them not to enter. All the furniture, the lamps, the curtains could go. Her son’s and daughter-in-law’s cards were in the envelope, should I wish to reach them for further clarification.