Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

told me a fantastic story, Dr. Chen. She said she was approached two years ago by someone with an offer to clone her dog—”
    “Crone dog no good,” he said; this was the only time I’d ever seen a hard look in his eyes.
    “But the dog is a service dog, a seizure-alert dog—“
    “No matter. You crone cells from great man, still end up with fool.”
    “What about all the positive, scientific—”
    “No reason strong enough. Not God’s will. Not healthy. No make strong offspring, only one parent.” He waved his hand back and forth, as if he could erase the whole idea of cloning.
    “I have better job for you.”
    “You do?”
    He nodded. “Find homes for Chinese babies, no have families to take care of them. Girl babies,” he said, “beautiful, rittle frowers, need roving American homes. This important work. Croning,” he shook his head again, “take you no prace good.”
    He turned down the lights, slipped out the door, and closed it behind him. I closed my eyes, careful not to move anything. I had once tried to scratch my nose, after the long thin needles had been inserted in my hand, and the pain was excruciating. But lying still, I felt only pleasure, the gentle movement of energy flowing in my arms and legs, streaming down my torso, and sending chills into my scalp.
    I lay still in the dark room for twenty minutes before the door opened and Dr. Chen reappeared.
    “Arm feels good?” he asked, removing the needles and putting them in the red Sharps container.
    “Everything feels good.”
    He nodded; wisps of hair covered the top of his round head, the skin of his face was as smooth as a baby’s even though he was well into his eighties.
    “You come ten in the morning next week, same as today. Okay?”
    “No problem.”
    “Use arm, rest arm. Twice a day.” He lifted his arm.
    “Elevate arm. I remember.”
    “Good. One more week, no cook, no crean.”
    I nodded.
    I lay there for several minutes after he left the room, my eyes closed, thinking about work.
    The night before I had walked as far as Fourteenth Street, hoping to catch up to Mel, not sure why I wanted to do that. Was it merely curiosity? Did I just want to know where he lived for no particular reason? Walking past the giant-size pig mural, flat-looking pink porkers announcing in no uncertain terms that this was the meat market in case the rank odor and the hunks of animal fat and bones strewn around didn’t get the message across, I had begun to wonder what I was thinking. I’d see him anyway in a day or two. Was there something I wanted to say, or to ask?
    I’d stopped on the corner of Fourteenth Street and had stood there looking around, aware that Blanche was breathing hard, that I’d been walking too fast for her. Across the street and west of where I stood was Moishe’s Mini Storage, New Yorkers’ answer to not having an attic or a basement—rent someplace to keep your junk. Near that was a new place under construction, Jeffrey, a drawing of a shoe on the outer wall of the construction site. First galleries, then restaurants and now a shoe store in the middle of the wholesale meat district, suddenly the hottest area of the city. Did Mel live here?
    I’d crossed the street, and passed The Little Pie Shop, walking as far as Greenwich Street. Markt was open, hip-looking people sitting around drinking beer and eating moules frites. I’d looked for a bull terrier tied up outside, but there was no Bianca and no Mel. What was I doing, anyway? There was work to be done.
    Walking slowly now, at Blanche’s pace, I’d stopped at Florent, the little French bistro on Gansevoort Street that stayed open around the clock. I’d been seated at a small round table and after settling Blanche at my side and ordering a glass of wine, I’d asked the waiter if he remembered a veterinary office around the corner. He wore a necklace of painted wooden beads, the kind I used to string on long colored shoelaces when I was little. He shook his head, telling me no, he didn’t know of any such place. And when I’d asked if he’d been here long, he bent closer so that he could whisper, “Oh, honey, you don’t want to ask a question like that.” His hand was flat on the table, his nails painted dark red.
    On the way home, instead of lagging behind or wandering off to the side, Blanche had stayed close to my side. Every time I’d looked down at her, she’d looked back up at my face, her brow furrowed with concern, as if waiting for me to