Sheep’s Clothing

In New York City, there are millions of people to whom Easter Sunday is meaningless. We were two of those people. We were 14-year-old Jewish ninth-graders. Easter was the holiday, the day after which you could buy jelly beans and chocolate eggs and bunnies for half price. In 1963, the Good Friday/Easter weekend was warm and sunny. People emerged from apartments like wasps whose nests had been torched. The winter exited suddenly, as if on cue. Spring descended like a scenery change on Broadway: tulips appeared, Central Park came alive, crocuses bowed their heads under boulevard tree plantings, the sun was suddenly emitting warmth and bright light.

On April 14, Easter Sunday that year, women and girls were outside wearing Easter bonnets and pastel-colored dresses. This was what the song instructed. And there was even an Easter Day Parade. Actually there was a parade somewhere almost every Sunday in New York, but the one on Easter was on Fifth Avenue and was televised to the rest of the country. It lasted for six hours and went from 49th Street to 57th Street, from the block where the Waldorf Astoria stood to the intersection flanked by Tiffany’s and Bergdorf Goodman. The square outside the Plaza Hotel on 58th Street would be teeming with people flaunting their finest springtime fashions.

What better a day to take Tracy Timmerman’s little white Maltese terrier, Tim, for a stroll down Fifth Avenue. Tracy and I were friends from school and she lived about five blocks from me on the Upper East Side. Tim Timmerman was a tiny dog, perfectly groomed. He was like royalty in their family. They revolved around this dog who, to me, was a poor excuse for a cat. Our families were different, and not just in our pet preferences. We lived in a brownstone, on the upper three floors. My father was a doctor; my mother was in publishing. My younger sister and I were raised by whichever maid was in my parents’ employ. Our apartment was dark and full of tasteful and traditional furnishings. The living room was so formal that my sister and I were not permitted to go into it unless my parents were having guests. And we always had a cat.

Tracy’s apartment was in an elegant building off Park Avenue. She lived there with her parents and an older sister and brother. They had a maid and a cook. Her house smelled of citrus, mixed with the odor of wealth. Now I know that wealth is not known to have a scent, but I swear her apartment emanated a fragrance of the finest of everything. Her father worked on Wall Street and her mother was “in the arts” — which meant, I assumed, that she collected contemporary art for their apartment and the large beach home they had in East Hampton. Their entire apartment was painted white. Enormous framed paintings hung on the walls; pieces of abstract modern sculpture sat on pedestals everywhere. I thought that Tracy’s house was like the Museum of Modern Art. Art critics came to their dinner parties along with the artists themselves. Once when I was sleeping over at Tracy’s house, her parents hosted a huge reception for Peter Max. We peeked out of the bedroom to watch other artists: Frank Stella, Jasper Johns, Larry Poons. Tracy said John Cage was there, but we couldn’t find him in the crowd.

And Tim, the white silky Maltese terrier, was their little prince. Their emblem. Their living hood ornament. Tim slept on velvet pillows, placed purposefully in each room. He was fed regular meat, ground by the butcher on Madison and 82nd. When Tim entered a room, whoever was there would squeal, Timmy! And the dog, running somewhat like a windup toy, would pitterpatter to be picked up and stroked. In the winter, when he was taken for walks, he wore special coats made for him by a fashion designer. They were simple, tailored, nothing gaudy. He had sets of little booties, made to match his leashes. He was cherished and adored by all the Timmermans, much the way a child identified as the reincarnation of a Tibetan lama is revered.

It was just past 11:00 when I met Tracy in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on 82nd and Fifth Avenue. Tim’s tiny white head was peeking over the edge of the doggy carrier Tracy had over her shoulder. Of course, it matched his leash. When she saw me, she lifted Tim onto the ground, signaling the start of our walk. Church bells were ringing from all directions as Easter worshippers gathered together to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and to show off their new spring attire. The streets were crowded with people: some walking dogs, some strolling with kids, old people, toddlers, and teenagers like us. Tracy was lanky, with a curly Afro-type hairstyle. Self-conscious about her marred teenage complexion and her taller-than-average height, she had an awkward gait. The best I can say about myself is that I was very average-looking: medium height, chubby, my clothes fitting me poorly. If my adolescent self appeared in high school today, I would be identified as a nerd. Back in 1963, the jargon was dorky. I was dorky.

The two of us, like a female, 14-year-old version of Mutt and Jeff, spent the afternoon walking Tim down Fifth Avenue, stopping now and then for a hot pretzel, ice cream, and even a hot cross bun from a street vendor. Tim ate whatever we purchased, in addition to his treats that Tracy dispensed whenever anyone stopped to pet him — which happened frequently. As I said, he had an air of nobility, with an irresistible coat of long, flat, satiny fur that barely touched the ground as he trotted along. His cuteness was irresistible.

When we got to about 58th Street, we decided to walk one block east to Madison Avenue so that we could catch a bus back up to my house on 82nd Street. It was getting hot and Tracy thought Tim needed to rest. When we were half way down the block, a man, dressed in a sport coat and khakis, approached us.

Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt your walk … oh, that is such an adorable dog you have there.

It’s a Maltese terrier, Tracy said almost robotically.

He went on, as he gave us a business card.

I’m on assignment for Seventeen magazine, and we’re working on a piece about teens in Manhattan for our summer issue. I couldn’t help noticing the two of you — I think you would be perfect for our article.

Tracy instantly shifted her posture, standing as tall as she could.

He continued, I need to do a photo shoot before the end of the day. Could you … you could even bring your cute dog and he could be in the photos … could you spare about a half hour now? My studio is only a few blocks from here.

In an agitated voice, I said, No, I don’t think that’ll work. We have to get the dog home. He’s too hot and needs to go home.

Tracy glared at me with incredulous fury. I tried to communicate to her with my eyes that something about this was fishy and dangerous.

This is Seventeen magazine, Gail! Timmy can cool off in the studio. It. Will. Be. Fine. She was livid.

The man looked at me and said with sincerity, Oh, I know you’re worried about the dog. I promise you I have water for him — and the studio’s air-conditioned so he’ll be fine. I think both of you are so perfect for this issue of the magazine. There’s a phone in the studio and you can call your parents from there. It’ll take hardly any time out of your day. It’s just a block past the Plaza, right over there. He pointed back in the direction from where we turned off Fifth.

Yes! OK, sure we can come, Tracy said as though I were invisible.

I noticed that there were lots of window air conditioners running from every story of the building we were standing next to. I took the leash from Tracy and intentionally got Tim wet from all the condensation dripping onto the sidewalk. The water was dirty, and his silky white coat turned gritty and gray.

Tracy screamed, What are you doing? Give me that leash.

I pulled away toward Madison, Tim in tow. Tracy was shrieking, running after me. When we were out of earshot from the man, I turned to her and handed her the leash.

He didn’t work for Seventeen! It’s Easter. No one works on Easter. He was tricking us into something bad. I could see behind us that the man had disappeared.

Jesus, Gail. That was a chance for us to be in Seventeen. That’s not gonna to happen again. Jesus. And now Timmy’s filthy. My mother’s gonna kill us.

Well, I’d rather be killed by her than by that man.

We crossed to the other side of Madison and got on the bus. We each threw 15 cents into the fare deposit machine. Tim was concealed in the doggy carrier. She sat across from me, intermittently glaring in my direction and tending to Tim as though this were his final day on earth. I couldn’t tell if she was more upset about the dog or about our thwarted opportunity to be immortalized in the pages of Seventeen.

She did not want to go to my house, as planned. We got off at 77th and she huffed her way home to her apartment, Tim still in the carrier. I walked five blocks by myself to 82nd Street. I told my mother what happened when I reached our house; she was so relieved that I had “used my head” and averted danger. I was told incessantly, like most children raised in Manhattan, to never talk to strangers. Perhaps this is why the whole thing had felt wrong to me. I was a mildly suspicious child, never really trusting good news.

What I was sure of was this: Tracy and I were not Seventeen magazine material. Tall and awkward, overweight and unsophisticated: it made no sense. And although the man was dressed nicely and did not look like a scumbag, I knew all about sheep’s clothing. Adults could look and act kind and generous, but behind closed doors, they were often mean and stingy. And for God’s sake, it was Easter Sunday. Everything was closed. Maybe I saved our lives. Maybe I was a hero. What I knew was that my friendship with Tracy would languish for a while. She would tell the other girls in our class about my stupid move getting Tim wet. I would be lonelier than usual for a time, but at least I would be alive, allowing the memory of Easter Sunday 1963 to percolate into a story I would tell years later.