She isn’t the sort of person who gets involved. She’s never been a doer of good deeds. But she thinks of the last postcard on her birthday. See something. And she does, she sees the way this man is splayed out on the concrete. She can’t help but think of Helene trapped in the car, her face pale, her lips the color of hyacinths. Shelby dreams of ice on cold nights, it’s blue or black or red with blood. She dreams she is down on all fours, fingers freezing, the cold going up through her bones until a black coat is covering her.
“Call 911,” Shelby tells the person next to her in the crowd of onlookers. She sounds as if she won’t take no for an answer, and even though the stranger she barks orders to is on his way to work, he does as he’s told. Shelby kneels on the concrete. There’s a pool of blood from a gash in the fallen man’s head that she tries her best to avoid. “You’re going to be okay,” she tells him. The concrete feels cold, like ice.
She knows it’s the right thing to say. She learned this from the nurses when she was in the hospital. They told her they had a list of steps when dealing with new patients. Be calm. No matter what. Even if someone is in a psychotic state and threatening to jump off the roof. No need to worry. No need to shout. Tell them they’re going to be okay.
The fallen man has a long dark beard and knotted hair; he’s wearing a gray overcoat, faded corduroy slacks, army boots. For an instant his eyes flicker.
“Talk to me,” Shelby says. “What’s your name?”
The fallen man mumbles something, but not in English.
Shelby turns to the stranger who dialed 911. He’s a good-looking young man who’s stayed on to wait for the EMTs. “What language is he speaking?” Shelby asks him.
“He’s speaking Russian.”
They’re in this together now and they know it. They can hear sirens, but the morning traffic is heavy, sure to slow down the ambulance. The young man crouches so he can take the fallen man’s pulse, then he unbuttons his coat and listens to his heart. Shelby notices the fallen man’s nails are long and curved, a dull yellow color.
“Malnutrition and nicotine,” the stranger says when he sees her staring at the long, misshapen nails. “They need to be clipped.”
“Are you a doctor?” Shelby asks.
“A vet.”
“Seriously?” Shelby’s secret dream for herself. She looks at the stranger with newfound respect. He grins and introduces himself as Harper Levy. “Your name sounds like a folk song,” Shelby tells him.
Harper gently raises the fallen man’s eyelids. “This is strange. The white film looks like a third eyelid, which is what canines have. I would guess he had a seizure. The fall is probably a by-product of that.”
Shelby’s falling for him as he speaks. The ambulance pulls up, and the EMTs immediately fit the fallen man with an oxygen mask. They ask Shelby and Harper Levy questions neither can answer. There’s no ID in the fallen man’s pockets.
“We don’t know him, but we think he’s Russian,” Harper Levy says.
Shelby is pleasantly surprised to be included in a “we.”
Harper talks to one of the EMTs as the fallen man is lifted into the ambulance. When he comes back to Shelby, he says, “We have to get tested for HIV and vaccinated for hep and tetanus. My grandpop always said no good deed goes unpunished. It will probably take hours.”
Shelby realizes they both have blood on their hands and clothes.
“They’ll survive without me at the pet store,” she says. “Since I’m the manager, I can’t fire myself.”
“Is that what you do?” Harper seems surprised. A smart girl in a shop.
“For now,” Shelby says.
“Well, we’ve got to go to Bellevue. That’s where they’re taking him.”
Harper phones in to the animal hospital where he works to cancel all of that morning’s appointments. As they walk uptown, people edge away from them. Shelby decides to take off her bloody sweatshirt and throw it in a trash can. Harper takes off his jacket, a really nice one he reveals that he got on sale at Barneys, and dumps it in the trash as well. They’re both wearing white short-sleeved Tshirts.
“Twins.” He’s staring at her in a way that makes her forget where they are. “What are the odds?”
On the way to the hospital Shelby tells him a few basic facts. She’s a student at Hunter College and her favorite food is Chinese, so much so that Shin Mae, the owner of her local takeout shop, knows her order by heart. Shelby leaves out the fact that she lives with Ben Mink. She tells herself that would be too much personal information. But she knows this isn’t exactly true. She wonders what her father tells the women he meets. That he’s single, or unhappily married, or filing for a divorce? That he’s misunderstood, sex-starved, a selfish bastard who can only think of his own needs?
“I just finished a Chinese cooking class,” Harper informs her. “I make fantastic wontons.”
He cannot be as good as he looks. So Shelby gives him her ultimate test question for a man she might consider. “Do you have a dog?”
“Two pit bulls. I adopted them when their owner went to prison.”
Is it possible the perfect man can be found on the street beside a pool of blood?
“Those dogs are loyal,” Harper says. “Even though their owner treated them like shit, when I say his name they still jump up and run to the door looking for him.”