Although her house badly needed painting, it wasn’t falling down. The concrete front steps and the roof had both been replaced the year I moved into my co-op. I’d never seen any other signs of work on the place and vaguely assumed she had a child somewhere who took care of the most pressing problems. Her yard apparently didn’t come under that heading. No one ever cut the rank, weed-filled grass in the summer and Mrs. Frizell didn’t seem to mind the cans and cigarette packs that people tossed over the fence.
The yard was a sore spot with the local block development committee, or whatever my upwardly mobile neighbors called themselves. They didn’t much like the dogs either. The Lab was the only purebred; the other four were mutts ranging in size from a large, off-white Benji replica to something that looked like a walking gray earmuff. The animals were nominally fenced in, except when Mrs. Frizell walked them on a tangle of leashes twice a day, but the Lab in particular came and went as he pleased. He’d jumped the four-foot fence to mount Peppy, and presumably other dogs as well, but Mrs. Frizell wouldn’t believe angry callers who told her so. “He’s been in the yard all day,” she would snap. And somehow, with that telepathy that exists between some dogs and their people, he would miraculously appear in the yard any time she opened the door.
“Sounds like a problem for the Department of Health,” Lotty said briskly. “An old woman alone with five dogs? I can hardly bear to think about the smell.”
“Yes,” I agreed, but not wholeheartedly.
Lotty offered dessert to Michael and his companion, the Israeli composer Or‘ Nivitsky. Michael, who made his home in London, was in Chicago for a few days to play a concert with the Chicago Symphony. Tonight he was giving a solo recital at the Auditorium as a benefit for Chicago Settlement, the refugee assistance group. It had been a favorite charity of Max’s wife, Theresz, before she died nine years ago; Michael was dedicating tonight’s recital to her. Or’ was playing the oboe in a concerto for oboe and cello she’d written in Theresz Loewenthal’s name.
Or‘ refused dessert. “Prepremiere butterflies. And anyway, I need to change.” Michael was already superfine in tails, but Or’ had brought her concert gown with her to Lotty’s—“That way I can pretend it’s just an ordinary evening as long as possible and enjoy my dinner,” she’d explained in her clipped British English.
While Lotty bustled out to fasten the back of Or’s dress, Michael went down with his cello to fetch the car. I cleared away the dinner plates and put water on for coffee, my mind more on Mrs. Frizell than on Or’s premiere.
I’d refused to sign the neighborhood petition demanding that she cut her grass and chain the dogs. A lawyer who’d rehabbed the house across the street from her wanted to take her to court and force the city to remove the dogs. He’d been around, trying to drum up support. My building was pretty evenly divided—Vinnie, the tight-assed banker who lived on the ground floor, had eagerly signed on, as had the Koreans on the second floor; they had three children and were worried about dog bites. But Mr. Contre-ras, Berit Gabrielsen, and I firmly opposed the idea. Even though I wished Mrs. Frizell would neuter the Labrador, the dogs weren’t really a menace. Just a minor nuisance.
“The puppies worrying you?” Max came up behind me as I stood lost in thought over the kitchen sink.
“No, not really. Anyway, they’re living with Mr. Con-treras, so they won’t be under my feet. I hate to find myself cooing over them with his enthusiasm, because getting them all back and forth for shots and everything else is going to be nightmare enough. And then finding homes for them, training the ones we can’t give away— but they are adorable.”
“I’ll put a notice in the hospital newsletter if you like,” Max offered. He was the executive director at Beth Israel, where Lotty sent her perinatal patients.
Or‘ swept into the kitchen as I was thanking him, resplendent in soft coal crepe that clung to her body like soot. She kissed Max on the cheek and held out a hand to me.
“Good to meet you, Victoria. I hope we’ll see you after the concert.”
“Good luck,” I said. “I’m eager to hear your new concerto.”
“I know you’ll be impressed with it, Victoria,” Max said. “I’ve been listening to the rehearsal all week.” Michael and Or‘ had been staying with him in Evanston.
“Yes, you are an angel, Max, putting up with our swearing and screeching for six days. Good-bye.”
It was only six o’clock; the concert didn’t begin until eight. The three of us ate poached pears with almond cream and lingered over coffee in Lotty’s bright, spare h’ving room.
“I hope Or‘ has done something palatable in Theresz’s honor,” Lotty said. “Vic and I went to hear the Contemporary Chamber Ensemble play an octet and a trio of hers and we both left with headaches.”