Fran Ross: Oreo

If he had seen Oreo, he made no sign. He went straight into a room opposite the children’s.

Mrs. Schwartz excused herself and followed him. In a few moments, Oreo heard low, angry voices coming from the room. The children opened their bedroom door a crack, showing four eyes with a frightened lemur-shine, then closed it hastily. She tried to make out what the voices were saying, but all she could distinguish was the cadence of accusation and recrimination. “Where were you all night?” she imagined Mrs. Schwartz saying. “None of your beeswax,” her father would answer. “I won’t have you lusting after the harlots of Harlem,” she would counter. “Who can shtup a woman who has one arm in the air all the time?” he would say. “It makes me think you’re trying to tell me something.”

Oreo did not touch the shrimp, although her mouth was watering. Might as well win some brownie points for politeness, she calculated.

A minute later, the door to the chambre de combat burst open and the Schwartzes came out. “I will not have that man coming here and frightening the children,” said Mrs. Schwartz.

“So take the kids for a run in the park, the way you always do,” Samuel said sarcastically.

“Someone from the landlord is here,” Mrs. Schwartz said with a warning edge on her voice.

Oreo was ready. She took the mezuzah from her clĕvice and let it drop outside her dress. She gestured with it rather obviously as she said, “I would like to discuss the plan with your husband, Mrs. Schwartz. Mr. Jenkins wants to make sure the members of each family unit are in agreement.”

Samuel’s eyes unfocused at the sight of the waggling mezuzah. He could have been doing a take for a hypnosis scene in a B movie. Trouper that he was, he recovered himself immediately. “Take Marvin and Edgar out. Dominic will be here any minute. I’ll see Miss…”

“Christie, Anna,” Oreo said. Her father smiled what she interpreted as a chip-off-the-old-block recognition smile. Probably thinking of his lousy clues, she would bet.

“Yes, I’ll see Miss Christie out, Mildred.”

Without another word, Mrs. Schwartz turned on her heel and knocked on the door of the boys’ room. Inclining her head, she motioned them out. They scurried past her, clutching their little suitcases. Clack — r-i-i-p, clack — r-i-i-p went their track shoes as they passed the par 3 section of the parquet. Mrs. Schwartz walked behind them. At the door she gave Samuel a look Oreo couldn’t define, then said, “Don’t forget to have your lunch. Miss Christie.”

When the door closed, Oreo stared at her father for several seconds without saying anything.

“So,” he said finally.

“So,” she said.

“You have my eyes.”

“I was going to say the same thing to you,” said Oreo.

He absentmindedly picked up a shrimp. He brought it to within sniffing distance and stopped short. He threw it down violently. “I told her to get rid of this trayf . It’s spoiled!”

The doorbell rang. “Who is it!” Samuel shouted. “Dominic,” answered a soft but penetrating voice.

“It’s open.”

A man built like a highboy came in. He moved as if on castors. He looked at Oreo. He looked at Samuel. “You get away with murder,” he said, snorting. “Bringing them right here to your house.”

Samuel gave him a quick shake of the head and a look that said, “Shah!” Samuel turned to Oreo. “Excuse me a minute, Chris — Miss Christie.”

He took Dominic into the short end of the living room’s L. There was murmured conversation for a few minutes, and when her father returned, he said, “I have a big favor to ask of you, kid. I know we just met, and believe me I’d like nothing better than to have a real heart-to-heart right now. And I promise you, we’ll have one — as soon as you get back from an errand I want you to run for me. That is, if you want to do it.” He patted her hand and gave her an actor’s look of fake sincerity or sincere fakery — she did not know which.

“What is it?” she said dryly.

While Dominic lurked in the base of the L, Samuel ran down a story that Oreo knew he was making up as he went along. In his story, Dominic was a play-school director whose little charges, seven boys and seven girls, had voted unanimously that before the day was out, they absolutely had to have, would turn blue if they did not get, a bulldog they had seen on an outing with Dominic as they strolled past a downtown pet shop window. Since — wonder of wonders — the pet shop owner just happened to be one of Samuel’s very best friends, Dominic had come to him on bended knee (or oiled castors) to beg him to get a good (that is, low) price for the pedigreed dog from Minotti, said pet shop owner. Dominic could not go himself because he had a silver plate in his head (this was later confirmed when Samuel bade him remove his partial bridge — lower left molars — and, lo, it was made of silver), but he had brought with him the contributions of the parents of the fourteen children and the nickels and dimes of the children themselves. Now, since Samuel would be very busy in the next few hours, it would be awfully sweet and considerate of Christine if she would act as his agent and buy and bring back the bulldog.

Oreo listened to this crock impassively. She now knew that she had come by her line of bullshit honestly. She told her father that she would do it. Samuel held up an envelope, which, he said, contained money and a note informing Minotti that the bearer was acting for the pet man’s good friend Schwartz. When he had had time to write such a note, Oreo did not know. And why didn’t he just phone Minotti and tell him she was coming? Tapped wires?

Samuel wrote the name and address of the pet shop on the envelope and sealed it. “Be very careful with this money,” he said.

Oreo noticed as she took the envelope that the “nickels and dimes” of the tykes had evidently been exchanged for paper money. She was pissed off. “Isn’t there anything you want to tell me before I go?” she said somewhat snappishly.

“Oh, that,” Samuel said. He gave her a sly grin. “How’d you like my clues? Pretty good, eh?” He pointed to a small shelf of books near where Dominic was casting a square shadow. “The final clue to the answer is in one of those books. When you get back. I’ll see if you can guess which one.”

Oreo was thoroughly disgusted. “Another riddle, yet!” she said, sucking her teeth.

Samuel laughed. “You sound just like your mother.” He put his arm around her shoulder, the better to hustle her out the door. “I’ll be waiting, kid, so speed it up. I’ll watch for you at the window. Wave to me if everything’s okay.”

“Why shouldn’t everything be okay?” Oreo asked. “It’s just a dog, right?”

Samuel didn’t answer but smiled his fake or sincere smile.

Oreo picked up her walking stick, which she had leaned against a phonograph console by the front door. Samuel saw her to the elevator.

Out on the street, she turned and looked up to the second floor. Her father was at the window. He waved at her, then ducked back inside. Oreo turned and walked down the street, the tail of her black headband flying in the wind.

Oreo at the pet shop

A grainy, high-contrast black-and-white photograph stippled the entire back wall. The dark mass covering the lower portion of the photograph, two-thirds of the picture area, was a rolling hillside, from which jutted, in profile, a file of bone-white tombstones, like the vertebrae of an unearthed prehistoric monster. It did not feel much like a pet shop. There were a few cages of scrawny animals, and two ink-blot Dalmatian puppies rorschached on the New York Post in the window, beneath cursive lettering that read: Minotti’s Pets . But the place lacked an aura of true “pet-shop-ness.” After a few moments, Oreo realized what was missing: musk. But how much scent could a few dogs, a monkey, a myna, and an empty fish tank muster? There was an odor in the air, dark brown and salty. What was it? Ah, yes, soy sauce. Oreo looked around. There were no cats in any of the cages. Perhaps Minotti’s was a front for a Chinese restaurant. Sinophobic slurs aside, it was obvious that the Minottis were preparing dinner.