Connections (11 page)

At 10:30, Chris Bartlett hopped into a cab to go home to pick up the manuscript he needed for the monthly editorial meeting. It had been easy to forget about it since he hadn’t had a chance to sit at his desk last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that. Jason needed to use the computer to write a letter to the tenants; then he had to write a letter to the committee members; then he had to write a letter to some local churches and schools to see about borrowing an auditorium for the next meeting. Jason was so busy these days that he probably hadn’t even noticed when Chris left last night to go to a movie by himself. He definitely hadn’t noticed when he’d come home.

Chris closed his eyes to the wind as the taxi sped through the Transverse in Central Park. Emerging on the West Side, the traffic stood still. It was already 84 degrees with 75-percent humidity, and Chris could feel the perspiration start at the back of his neck and trickle under his collar. He’d have to change his shirt when he got home. After the light turned green twice and they didn’t move an inch, Chris jumped out to dash the last few blocks on foot.

🙧

Rosa brushed Princess with a baby brush. The fur on her back was so thin that her pink skin was exposed. Growths the size of pimples dotted her little body and even though the vet had told her they were normal at her age, especially in Poodles, Rosa was afraid of hurting her. The brushing didn’t help her hair, her skin, or her circulation. It didn’t do anything except give Rosa a chance to continue the loving, affectionate ritual that she’d started when Princess was a puppy. “Then, bambina, when we done, Mama gonna go out for a while. Go visit the chiropodist. He look at my bunion and maybe fix-a my feet so we go for a nice long walk. You like that, huh? Oops, he called a podiatrist now.”

🙧

Clifford refused to go to camp. Besides, he no longer fit into the special education classes for special-needs students. He was going to start regular school in September, but it was too early to have him thrown into a normal group for an extended period over the summer. So, as Jessica had promised her husband, she escorted him to the 4Cs, which Dr. Kravitz had recommended, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. The Comprehensive Children’s Counseling Center had a summer preteen group program that seemed to help Clifford interact with kids his own age. Then she went home to study for the Graduate Record Examinations. She was determined to get into graduate school and get her master’s degree. Step one was to take the GREs. For the first time since Clifford was born, she had some options, some choices to make. She could actually leave home and have a real job. And she knew what she wanted to do. Something with animal therapy for people.

🙧

Laurie could see her reflection in the computer screen. Her hands were arched over the keyboard, like a pianist’s, her fingers moving fluently as she arranged the facts into a new composition. The light tapping of her fingertips on the letters, the clicking of the keys making contact with their mechanical brain, the liquid rhythm…it flowed through her like a concerto. She watched her bare nails superimposed on the white-on-black data input and decided a manicure with bright red polish would be dazzling. The pain swelled in her heart; the music surged in her mind. She played beautifully.

🙧

Eileen knew something was wrong. She’d felt it as soon as she woke up.

Leaving the supermarket after making what the TV shows called “the drop-off,” rushing, not daring to look, she had been too fast, too nervous for the automatic exit door. She walked into it with such force that her glasses fell off. In her hurry to pick them up and get out of there, she stepped on the left lens, smashing it with her own foot. She’d been afraid to leave the apartment since that day, afraid to leave Fibber alone, afraid to stay there with him. But she couldn’t see. She finally brought her glasses to Cohen’s yesterday for repair. Walking to Third Avenue, she kept looking behind her, to her side, out of the corners of her eyes, wondering if the messenger on his bike, or the Con Ed guy drilling on the corner, or the black deliveryman in the undershirt was one of them, was the one after her and her Fibber.

Now, coming back from Cohen’s, her old glasses in the new case they’d been nice enough to give her, she knew something was wrong when she saw the landlady peeking out at her from behind her first-floor window. Her hands shook as she jabbed the key into the front door. Once inside, the old woman opened her door and said she had found the envelope under the front door, without a stamp on it. Eileen recognized the block printing. Even if she hadn’t, she would have known it was from them.

She pressed it between her thumb and index finger. The softness felt like a packet of tissues or a wadded-up cloth. Or something. When she put her thumb under the flap and tore half of it open, enough to put her fingers inside, she felt what it was.

The ear fell on the floor. The thud it seemed to make as it bounced gently on the worn rug thundered in Eileen’s temple as her pressure soared. Her blood thickened as it froze and got stuck in her veins. Then it thawed, sending the icy liquid racing through her body, leaving a terrible cold under her skin.

Nausea rippled in her stomach and rushed through her ribs. It pushed to her throat, choking her. She strained the muscle under her tongue, trying to hold it back. But she couldn’t.

Eileen opened her mouth and threw up all over the little foyer.

Louise was as dazzled as Elena by the array of real-looking figures that beckoned to the crowds of young girls who swarmed into the American Girl store on Fifth Avenue. The revolving door kept turning more people into the entrance, and if they didn’t step out quickly enough, they’d go around for another swing, right outside to 49
^th
Street. The shrill squeals of excitement were contagious, and it seemed everyone was oohing and aahing and touching the dolls at the same time.

Louise and Elena were pushed along to the escalator and were just as eager as everyone else to explore the wonders of the second floor. Louise felt a little guilty for bringing Elena to a place where she could probably never return, never again enjoy an expedition to this wonderland. She promised herself she would buy her one doll and give her a glimpse into a universe of indulgence. But she was taken aback by the prices and by the seemingly unlimited must-have extras available for each personality—because each doll had not only a personality but an entire biography, cultural background, family history, hobbies, and goals. Louise enjoyed seeing Elena’s pure joy in holding some of the dolls.

Louise was part of the sisterhood of women watching their daughters and granddaughters and nieces examine the dolls, combing their hair with skinny fingers, trying to decide which one they liked best—and pleading for an extra outfit or shoes or the accompanying book. And once a decision was made, there would be a little cry of “Oh, look at that one. Isn’t she more beautiful?” Louise thought Elena would choose one that looked most like her—darker skin, curly black hair. So she was surprised when Elena picked Isabelle, with her long blonde hair and her aspirations to be a dancer—what Elena
wished
she looked like. For herself, Louise would have chosen a brunette with tanned skin and brown eyes.

How could Louise not get Elena an extra outfit for her doll? How could she dress and undress her little friend if she had only one thing to wear? So $134 for Isabelle, $36 for a dress—which was probably more than Yolanda spent on Elena’s clothes—another $36 for a makeup kit, and $30 for the accessory bag. Louise’s VISA credit card was probably smirking.

Fortunately, she had waited too long to make reservations for lunch, and the café was all booked. She’d take Elena somewhere for a hamburger or a slice of pizza. They certainly didn’t have stuff like this doll store when Louise was growing up, but her heart felt full with pleasure as Elena clutched her red shopping bag in one hand and took Louise’s hand with her other.

Rosa opened the washrag, spread it under the cold water, slowly rotating it until it was soaked. Standing at the unfamiliar sink, more like a basin with legs, she looked around the small, old-fashioned kitchen, approving of its tidiness. She couldn’t help noticing that the cabinet doors didn’t close all the way, as the wood was swollen with years and years of paint. Or that the single work surface was badly pockmarked with nicks and cuts, that the original linoleum had holes large enough in places for the gray concrete to show through. It looked just like her own kitchen, down to the small Kelvinator. She had wanted to use ice cubes, but the trays were so stuck to the tiny freezer compartment that she couldn’t get them out. Funny—they both even had the same vintage toaster, the kind with little doors for the bread, from before toasters were pop-ups.

Rosa twisted the cloth tight, squeezing out the water, and wondered why she and Eileen Hargan, neighbors for at least forty years, had never visited one another, never been in one another’s apartment. Maybe they could start now. It would be nice to have someone from just down the block stop by, have a glass of Chianti, and talk. As soon as the poor woman was back to herself, Rosa would definitely ask her.

“Now, here, this-a gonna make you feel much better,” she soothed as she walked into the living room. She patted Eileen’s forehead and cheeks lightly so the cold wouldn’t shock her. Then she folded the cloth into a band and held it against her skin. “You feeling a little better now? Good.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Rosa sat down next to Eileen on the faded chintz couch and put her other arm around her, rocking her slightly.

“You sure that’s what he said?” Eileen’s words sounded like hiccups through her sobs. “That he couldn’t talk because he was in a meeting? Was it himself or his secretary?”

“No, he got on. After I tell the secretary it’s about his aunt. But don’t-a worry. You know how these big executives are. Always making important deals, at meetings. If I say you sick or in bad trouble, I’m sure he would-a come like that.” Rosa tried to click her fingers but her arthritic joints refused to bend. She made the gesture anyway.

“Always telling me he’d do anything for me, that I shouldn’t worry—he’ll take care of me in my old age. Always promising, her too, and then the first time I ask, just once I need someone, and where is he? He knows Fibber is my whole life. He should understand that it was almost a tragedy. God, I would have died…honest, look what just the thought of it did to me.” Eileen took the washrag to wipe her nose.

“Well, the way I explain, maybe it really don’t sound too serious. As long as your boy”—Rosa patted Fibber McGee’s head—“is still here, alive, with you.”

“No, it’s not right. What could be worse? I ask you, what?”

“I know. You think I don’t know? If something happen to my Princess, I do like you do. Faint. Or die. Or kill somebody. Yes, I would kill anybody who hurt my little bambina. Monsters, that’s what they are. Scaring you like that. Where you suppose they get the ear from? Some poor little animal belongs to someone else? It’s not fake. Monsters, they are. Don’t worry, I stay here with you. We’re the same. If your nephew, if he come, he won’t understand anyway. About loving you dog so much. It’s better he don’t come. You see.” She stroked Eileen’s shoulder.

“Thanks. I’m so glad Miss Schlosser had enough sense to call you when she saw you walking by. But where could it have come from? Some other poor little thing…”

“And its mama crying
her
heart out somewhere.”

The buzzer jolted them both like an electric shock. Eileen gasped, her breath caught in her chest.

“You expecting company?” Rosa asked.

“No, no. It’s them. It’s them,” she wailed.

“Don’t be silly. Maybe Miss What’s-her-name downstairs, she wanna know how you feel?” Rosa insisted on being calm, even though her voice sounded far away to her, traveling the distance over her heartbeats.

“No, she would ring up here, not the downstairs bell. Oh, Fibber, come here, come here, they’re going to get you, and us too.”

Fibber stopped barking to cock his head at the front door and listen for footsteps.

“I go ask. Where’s your box?” Rosa anxiously looked around for an intercom, her legs turning soft as soon as she stood on them.

“Outside the bathroom door. But it doesn’t work. You can’t talk, only ring back. Oh, no, don’t ring them in. Don’t let them in.”

“Mine neither. Doesn’t work. I’ll go down and see.” The buzzer sounded again, more shrill and more insistent. Rosa scrambled to the old box, originally brass but painted many times to match the different colors over the years. In the dim hallway, the two black buttons poked out of it like bulging eyes and, since she didn’t know which was the door release and which was for talking, she pressed them both, alternately, several times. She did that at home too. She became more nervous about somebody leaving before she could buzz the person in fast enough than she was about a stranger ringing.

She hurried to the front door and waited. The slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs kept in time with the thumping of her heart. She raced into the kitchen and came back with a long knife with a serrated blade that she knew would not be good to stab someone with. But feeling more secure, she clutched it to her breast and squeezed her right eye against the peephole. Ken Hollis’s warm smile was a sinister sneer in the pinpoint opening.

Jason carefully slid the ruler down the paper. His tongue moved back and forth, circling around his lips, as he guided his hand to draw another line down the page. He leaned back and tilted his head at an angle to admire his handiwork. Pleased, he made columns of the headings—FLOOR, APARTMENT, TENANT, TELEPHONE, E-MAIL—trying to center each one in the space he had allotted. He smoothed the paper and slowly started copying the names from the steno pad he used for his notes. He would have preferred to type them in, but it would take much too long. He would have asked Chris, who was a whiz on the computer, but he didn’t want anyone’s help. He realized it wasn’t so much not wanting to share the responsibility as it was guarding his position of president. Protecting his control. Or just possibly, a way to have a secret from Chris, something private that he wasn’t a part of.

Something had happened to Jason recently; he felt different. He
was
different. Everything was different. For the first time in his life, he felt whole, complete. He didn’t know when it had happened or why; he never noticed a gradual change. One morning he woke up, and he was a different person.

He still loved Chris, actually loved him more intensely. But it wasn’t the same pathetic desire to be wanted, to be taken care of. It was an independent attraction. And it made Jason feel good about himself, about Chris, and about their relationship. Made him feel self-sufficient. Mature.

Even sex had changed. He no longer was turned on by the physical strength of Chris’s lovemaking. At some point earlier, he’d come to understand that before he met Chris he had found partners—
looked
for partners—who were very dominant, more so than his submissive nature demanded. He liked to be overcome, overtaken. Maybe so he didn’t have to admit that he had any choices, that he could say no. It was the easiest cop-out in the world. Pretend to himself that it wasn’t his fault. Meeting Chris had changed that, although he was the strong one and Jason the weak. Now, though, he preferred to be equal to Chris, not just give in to him. And now that he
could
say no, he didn’t. But it was by choice, not by indecision. And it was better like that.
He
was better.
Who knows?
he thought.
I might even become the stronger one if this keeps up.

Jason stroked a piece of scrap paper with his fine felt-tip marker to make sure the ink was flowing smoothly. Then he carefully printed TENANT ASSOCIATION on the tab of a manila folder and filed his chart away.