“Magnus!” I said, theatrically raising my hands. “Did you miss me, boy? Did you miss me?”
He wagged his tail, barked, then got up, ears erect. Sniffing, he then ran around me five more times and sat down, which I interpreted as an affirmation that he had, in fact, missed me.
I’d deliberated before taking Magnus in. My list of cons was huge: A dog was a lot of work. I couldn’t afford to take care of him. I’d have to walk him three times a day, which was impossible. My tiny shop didn’t have room. He would ruin all my furniture. Dogs required attention, and I had no time. I was an alchemist, working with dangerous substances, and he might eat them. This would not be a wise decision.
The pro list was much shorter. It was, essentially: OMG, puppy!
This internal debate had taken place in the street as I’d stared down at the only yellow-white puppy in a large cardboard box. He looked up at me with his trusting puppy eyes. He wagged his cute puppy tail. He let out one short, soft whine. I was doomed. Not even Margherita’s fix-it-all could protect me from his wiles.
I named him Magnus, after Albertus Magnus, the famous alchemist.
Sinead, who knew a thing or two about dogs, told me he was mostly golden retriever. She also warned me that, taking into consideration the size of his snout and feet, he would grow into the dog equivalent of a rhinoceros. Whatever. He was cute, and he loved me unequivocally.
I crouched and scratched him behind his left ear. He narrowed his eyes, his tail thumping like a toppled metronome on the wooden floor.
“Mommy’s screwed,” I told him, in my high-pitched talk-to-Magnus voice. “Mommy’s payment to a psychopathic gangster is gone. Yes. He will flay Mommy alive. Who’s screwed? It’s Mommy! Yes it is! Mommy’s screwed.”
I’d become one of those women who call themselves “mommy” when talking to their dog. Sixteen-year-old Lou would have been mortified to see her future self.
Magnus licked my nose in response and then nuzzled his head closer to the scratching hand. He panted in a manner that would have been incredibly disturbing coming from an adult man, but was the epitome of cuteness in a seven-month-old puppy.
I’d had the foresight to walk and feed him before I’d left for my errands, which meant I could get about two hours of sleep before he would jump on the bed, licking me awake to demand his morning walk.
I stumbled into the shower, in a bathroom the size of a broom closet. Negotiating it meant I had to undress in the bedroom, open the bathroom door, and enter sideways, nudging Magnus out with my foot and closing it. Since the room was too small for an actual shower stall, the shower partly sprayed the toilet, which meant I had to wipe it clean afterward. Or, as was mostly the case, forget, and sit down on a wet toilet an hour later.
Rinsing off the sweat and the dirt from lying in the street, I took stock of my options, of which there was exactly one: beg Breadknife to give me a few more days to pay up. We went back a ways; surely he had a soft spot for me?
I prodded the back of my head, where Hardy the goon had hit me, and winced as I touched the bruise. It was swollen, and the pain made me feel slightly sorry for myself again. But this time it was natural self-pity, the type that is sometimes required and can easily be fixed with a shot of whiskey and a good, solid, two-hour night’s sleep. Which is what I did.
Chapter Six
I’d hardly closed my eyes before the licking began, morning light shining through the shades of my small bedroom window. I shoved Magnus off the bed, groaning, but his snooze button was eternally broken. He jumped right back on the bed and commenced the licking treatment again. I opened an eye and peered at my phone, checking the time.
“Shit!”
Too late. Too damn late. I lunged from the bed, and Magnus cartwheeled off it in confusion. I was already scrambling at the piles of clothing on the floor—my wardrobe—searching for something that could even vaguely be considered clean and presentable. Shirt. Pants. I could do without socks. I put on my boots still standing, hopping on one leg at a time, nearly crashing to the floor. I checked the time again.
“Shit!”
The leash was nowhere to be found. Magnus occasionally hid it, for reasons known only to himself. I tore through the three rooms in a frenzy, finally locating it under a dress I didn’t recall owning. I called Magnus, and he barked with joy and ran over. I tried to fasten the leash to his collar. He kept jumping and barking, his tongue lolling with glee, making it nearly impossible.
“Magnus, sit!” I yelled at him.
Training him was not my strong suit. Presumably, he thought I said, “Magnus, lick my hand and then dribble some pee on the floor in excitement.”
Finally, with the leash latched, we both ran at the door, with me glancing again at the time.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit!”
We dashed outside and down the street. My body began to remind me I had taken quite a beating the day before, and that I hadn’t slept enough since. My head pounded and the wound at my waist burned. I kept running, ignoring the pain. I could handle physical discomfort, but if I missed her… I needed that glimpse. That one glimpse. As long as I got it, I could get through the day, shitty as it was guaranteed to be.
We ran down the street, took a right, and I slowed down, trying to behave as if I were on a normal daily stroll. My eyes searched for her desperately.
Nothing.
The gray Boston sky rumbled, thick dark clouds promising an oncoming rain that matched the state of my morale. I’d missed her. I had slept too late, thinking Magnus would wake me in time, and I had missed her. And it was already Friday, which meant the next time I would see her would be Monday. A tear materialized in my eye, and I let out a small hiccupping sob. Of all the days to have been late…
And then they appeared, coming around the bend, down the street, and I felt a wave of relief. I hadn’t missed her after all.
I strolled casually down the street, just a lady walking her dog. They got closer, and I watched her from the corner of my eye. She chattered incessantly, clutching the woman’s hand, smiling—such a beautiful smile.
My brain drank in the details. The ponytail with the purple headband. The pink boots, white stockings, sky blue skirt, white T-shirt with a kitten. That smile. Those eyes. Her lovely, happy voice as they got closer.
“Good morning.” The woman who held the girl’s hand smiled warmly at me—as she always did, every morning.
“Morning,” I said back, as I always did, hoping she could ignore my bloodshot eyes, my hair, the shirt I had put on inside out.
She didn’t spare me a second glance. Of course she didn’t. I was just another stranger, a woman she saw every morning, walking her dog.