Connections (13 page)

Princess hung from the large breast, her belly pressed against the soft flesh, her back paws dangling straight, unable to swing close to her midriff. She rested her head on Rosa’s shoulder, her face turned in to her neck. She was unable to see her mistress’s eyes, but she felt them warming her, just as she felt the security of the hand that cradled her little back and would not let her fall.

Rosa walked back and forth, humming an Italian lullaby, as if rocking a baby. She stroked her head. “Who’s Mama’s little girl?” she sang. She made a hole between two of the slats in the old wooden blinds and closed one eye to peek out. “Who would do such a thing? Dio, it’s terrible. Terrible. Thank heaven, Fibber McGee, you little friend, he’s okay.” Rosa tilted her head lightly against Princess’s, her hair on the dog’s fur.

Without disturbing a muscle, Rosa walked to her easy chair and carefully backed into the seat. Sitting, she swayed her buttocks slightly in the cushion to soothe Princess, who was already asleep. “What I would do if something happen-a you, bambina.” She tightened her hold. “I die if you die. You hear?” She nuzzled her face, and Princess opened her eyes. Rosa shifted her to her lap and caressed her body, so frail, so tender where her fur had thinned.

“But worse, much worse—ah, I cannot even-a think—what would happen to you, my precious, if I die. My heart, it breaks to think about my poor little baby crying for me, wondering where I am. Like if those men do something terrible and take you away. You crying, looking for your mama, waiting for me to come get you. Oh Dio, Dio mio,” Rosa wailed and hugged her Princess tight. Then, making an effort to be more rational and because she could not even conceive of such a notion, she thought about her will. Maybe she should change it. After all, even though she indicated that Princess should be sent to Italy to her sister, would they send her poor baby there? How could she ride in the plane by herself? In a crate? And maybe Josie wouldn’t be so loving, even though she promised. Or maybe she’d be too old or too sick. Or dead too. And now that it looked like Marliese would not be coming back, what would she do?

Rosa gently put Princess on the floor before she stood up and suddenly decided to ask Eileen Hargan if she would take care of Princess if she should die. She patted her bun, put on deep-red lipstick, and picked up her black pocketbook. “You stay home and mind the house. Mama gonna pick up you pills.” Rosa double-locked the door. Her chest hurt from the fear. And she looked up at the high, dark ceiling in the hallway and silently reminded God that He had to let Princess die first.

The plastic crackled as Clifford pressed the ridges of the zipper down to close the bag. He liked the popping sound it made. He pulled the two halves apart, took the peaches out, smoothed it flat on the table, and locked the tracks together again.

“I’ll be right there, honey. Got all your stuff?” Jessica asked from the bedroom.

“Yes, Mom.” He put the fruit back, zipped the bag for the last time, and stuck it in his backpack. “Have a nice day.” Clifford squeezed Kola good-bye, lingering over the hug. “You be good and ’fore you know it, I’ll be home.” His voice was a husky whisper. He raised it to call “Ready.”

“Coming, sweetie.” Jessica hurried to the front door, held the green canvas bag behind Clifford so he could put his arms in the straps, patted Kola reassuringly, and said, “You be careful now. Be back soon.” As the elevator stopped in the lobby, she asked Clifford, “Got everything?”

“Why’d you say that? ‘Be careful.’”

“I don’t know. Just an expression.”

“Not for a dog. You don’t tell a dog, be careful. What’s she got to be careful about anyway?”

“I said it was just something I said. It didn’t mean anything.” The guilt crept into Jessica’s answer. “Today’s the pool day, huh?”

“Yes, but it’s silly to say that to an animal. As if she has to look both ways before crossing. Or not talk to strangers. Or sumpthing!”

“All right. I didn’t mean it. You want me to go home and say I’m sorry to Kola?” She nudged his arm apologetically as they crossed 68
^th
Street.

As soon as she dropped Clifford off, waiting on the sidewalk to make sure he went inside the Center, Jessica headed toward the bus stop on Lexington. Her fingers played inside her pocket, nervously polishing her keys. Lenny could not make a decision like this for her or without her. It affected her life more than it affected his anyway. What right did he have to say it was his money because he worked for it? She worked just as hard providing a home and being a wife and mother. Maybe harder. And him sitting all day, adding up columns, calculating numbers, reading ledgers. Where were his priorities? If they didn’t pay up, and they actually took Kola—kidnapped her as they threatened—Clifford might regress to his other self. And where would that leave her? Back to being a slave. She couldn’t risk it. Even if it meant not going to graduate school, she had to use the money. Clifford’s health should be their first priority.

And where did he get off saying she wasn’t
allowed
to write out a check on their money market account, that she could only use the checking account?! It was a helluva lot of money. But you couldn’t put a value on Kola. Or on what she had done for their lost little boy, unlocking his mind, freeing him, when all the treatments and therapies and all the doctors hadn’t been able to. Fifteen thousand dollars was cheap when you looked at it like that.

As soon as Merrill Lynch cashed the check for her, she’d put the money in a pillow case like they said and toss it in dryer number four in the Laundromat on 83
^rd
Street, between First and York. Jesus, suppose somebody had a week’s load of wash in there? What if the money fell out of the pillow case? Jessica had visions of an audience standing in front of the machine, staring in its porthole, hypnotically watching the bills spin dry. Maybe she should staple it closed. Which pillow case should she use? Any one she chose would ruin a set of linens. Maybe Clifford’s Batman one, instead of breaking up her king-size pair. No, he’d be upset. God, here she was giving away a chunk of their savings and worrying about losing a twenty-dollar pillow case.

Laurie swore she’d never do social media. She had opened a Facebook account a few years ago but never posted anything on it, never searched for a “friend,” and never responded to anyone looking for her. Not that too many people were trying to find her. Now, however, to take a break from the depressing statistics she was reading and inputting, she went to Facebook—and then had to look for the password she had used so long ago to open the account.

Who cared what someone had for breakfast, for God’s sake, or what movie they went to or how they liked a restaurant? Why would anyone be interested? It was like reading someone’s boring diary. She didn’t understand what the appeal was, how some people felt compelled to write every single day about what was going on in their lives, which was nothing, and search other people’s pages to see what they were doing and eating and feeling. Such a waste. She had no idea how to tweet or blog or do any of those other things. And she didn’t want to know.

She wanted to scream at them all, “There are poor animals out there being killed and tortured, and you’re writing about the jeans you bought!”

Eileen rehearsed her excuse over and over before calling Judy Boylan. In the eleven years since they had retired and their bimonthly Thursday afternoon get-together had become a ritual, Eileen had never canceled. She knew it would have to be something terrible—worse than just not feeling well—to be believable. But under the circumstances, she couldn’t face gabbing and gossiping.

She dialed the number but hung up before it started to ring. She paced in front of the phone, went to the bathroom, dialed again, and hung up a second time. Fibber watched her and then asked to go out. “Now, now, you don’t have to go. You just want my undivided attention,” she reprimanded him absentmindedly. “Later.” Unaccustomed to Eileen’s preoccupation, he slunk into the bedroom.

She drank a glass of water, called again, and finally waited for Judy to pick up.

“It’s Fibber; he’s sick,” Eileen said breathlessly, crossing her fingers behind her back and praying that just this one time, a lie would not come true. “I have to take him to the doctor.”

“I could wait for you to come back,” Judy offered

“No, no, he can’t squeeze me in ’til after lunch, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. And I’m so upset, I wouldn’t want to make any plans, in case it’s something bad. No, I wouldn’t be very good company.”

“Why, Eileen Hargan, what makes you think you’re good company anyway?” A hearty laugh followed the question. “It’s fine; we’ll do it next week. Call me when you get back to let me know how he is.”

Eileen thought she probably wouldn’t be up to it next week either. What could she say then? Now she’d have a whole week to worry about that! Thank God, in another few weeks, Judy would be going off for the summer, as she did almost from the day she had started teaching. She’d rent a villa for July and August—in Spain or Italy or Greece—where she said you could live like a millionaire. Then Eileen wouldn’t have to think about her or their date, at least until after Labor Day.

She went to reassure Fibber McGee, who was curled up on her bed, licking himself. Eileen gasped when she caught him. “Naughty, naughty!” She shook her finger at him, trying not to look at the tip of the slimy red thing poking out of its furry sheath. “Shame on you, Mr. McGee. You’re much too old for that.”

The corner of 181
^st
Street and St. Nicholas Avenue was crowded with makeshift counters selling books for a dollar, velvet-covered trays displaying gaudy jewelry, and pillars of crates and cartons, the open ones on top spilling summer fruit. On an impulse, Yolanda stopped to examine the small cones of flowers poking out of pails of water on the sidewalk. She tugged at the wrapping paper of a bouquet of daisies to compare the freshness with another bunch. The vendor yelled at her, “Don’t you touch. You show me what you like, I give.”

“All right, all right, don’t get excited.” She pointed to another bunch. “That one, with the pink carnations in it. How much?”

“Same’s all of them. Five dollars, lady. Why you don’t take two together?”

“No. One’s fine. Thank you.”

“You take two, I give you both for eight dollars.”

“No, really.” She watched him wrap the wet stems in another piece of paper and take out a huge wad of bills to give her change of a ten. She grabbed the singles and ran as she saw the M3 bus coming. It would probably take her an extra half hour to get down to 84
^th
Street, transfer to the 86
^th
Street crosstown, and then get back to the hospital, but she had a two-hour break before her second shift.

She went to the back of the bus and sat at the edge of the seat, awkwardly holding the flowers away from her. The paper was already soggy. She’d just put them in front of the door. Ms. Sidway wouldn’t be home at this hour anyway. She wished she had some paper in her bag so she could leave a note, but this would be a nice surprise. Then she’d call tonight to tell her she had left them. To say thank you.

Yolanda Santiago was a strong, determined woman. But without Louise Sidway, she didn’t think she’d have been able to get through the past year—her husband leaving. For good. She wouldn’t have cared so much if she weren’t so afraid for the kids. She could handle Elena. At least for now. She was a good girl but was depressed about her father. And the little ones would be okay. They were too young to understand. But it was Ricky who worried her. He had been hard enough to control when Ricardo lived with them. With Ricardo gone, she was sure her son would run off with one of the gangs, get into big trouble, and quit school.

Then Louise came into their lives. And funny how things worked out, because Yolanda wasn’t even going to apply for assistance. If she hadn’t, the two women never would have met. The way Louise just stepped in and sort of took over, talking to Ricky like she was, as she called it, his “Dutch aunt” gave him an incentive to stay in school. And this part-time job she got for him was great. Of course, the job had been after school and only a few hours a week. Plus Saturdays.

But now, during the summer, nobody was more surprised than Yolanda when Ricky got up by himself every morning, as soon as the alarm went off, and never complained about not being able to hang out with his friends. In fact, he seemed to like working. He seemed to take his responsibilities very seriously. She only prayed her little Ricky would make it through his last year of high school and graduate next June. God, she was proud of him. And when he used his own money to buy Elena that skirt, Yolanda almost burst with pride. And gratitude.

She was making a decent living. Of course, arranging food on trays and delivering them to patients wasn’t the most exciting job in the world, but Mount Sinai was such a big hospital, she could always apply for something else, once she proved how good she was. At least that’s what Louise had said. And being able to work extra shifts like today, doing dinner too, gave her a chance to make extra money. Señora Sanchez, who watched the children for her, was so glad to have an adopted family to take care of, so glad to be around children again since hers were still in Colombia, that it didn’t matter how long Yolanda was gone.

In fact, one of these days, Yolanda decided, she might even suggest that the señora move in with them. It would be cheaper for her and certainly cheaper for Yolanda. She probably never would, though. If Louise got the señora approved as an authorized day-care provider, then the state would start paying her. But all in all, things were working out. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. God was watching out for Yolanda. And so was a tough-looking, loud-talking redhead.

Ken Hollis was just the right size for the wing chair. He was a little taller than Louise’s father, so his shoulders reached higher into the back. Even though Louise had had it recovered in a more modern fabric, she could still see its fancy brocade upholstery as it was in the living room in Maryland. Facing the fireplace, its textured back toward the archway entrance, her father’s body was invisible from behind, and the room looked empty. Only a corkscrew of pipe smoke hovering above the chair gave him away.

Every time she walked into the apartment, the chair pulled her eyes toward it. The gray dotted with small wine-colored circles fit into the rest of the room, with her parents’ massive breakfront and her burgundy convertible sofa. It fit, but it seemed out of place, out of time. Maybe because her father was no longer there. But now, with Ken Hollis sitting in it, sipping a Jack Daniel’s, it once again looked comfortable. Part of a life, of a family.

She could see Ken from the tiny kitchen, where she was opening the cabinets, looking for the peanuts and her mother’s little sterling silver bowl to put them in. She had been prepared to invite him up the other night after dinner. She had dusted and left the cocktail napkins and the glasses out. Scrubbed the bathroom sink. But it ended up being so late, because they had sat and talked for ages over their coffee, that she hadn’t asked him. And he never suggested it. It hadn’t even bothered her. He walked her to her apartment, waited until she unlocked the inside door, and then gave her a little salute before going to the garage to pick up his car for what she knew was going to be a long drive home.

It didn’t bother her because she knew he’d be back. Not this soon, maybe, but she just knew that she would see him again. That she was as comfortable with him as…well, as he was in the wing chair. No hassle, no funny business, no rehearsing what she’d say to get rid of him.

Now, though, when she hadn’t expected to hear from him so quickly, when her hair was really frizzed up from the humidity, her makeup melted off, and her shirt stained from lunch, he calls her at work to ask if she wants to go for a hamburger!

As Honda watched her put a coaster on the end table, his brows wrinkled, pleating the silver arrow in his forehead. His body was spread flat in front of the chair, his head resting on the ottoman between the thick rubber-maze soles of Ken Hollis’s Avias. Louise wanted to be pleased that Honda liked him. She
was
pleased, but resentment momentarily narrowed her lips. As soon as she sat down on the couch, holding her Chablis, Honda sighed audibly, turned onto his side, facing her, and closed his eyes.

She took a long, slow swallow, looking at Ken through the distortion of her glass. He seemed to feel at home. So did she. It didn’t matter that she
was
home; it didn’t often feel like it to her. Louise leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes, letting the wine pave her esophagus with a sweet syrup and coat her insides with tenderness. Of course Honda was pleased. He missed her parents also; he missed having a man around. Louise was pleased too. If only Ken wasn’t so skinny.

“Thank God.” Ken leaned forward to look at the dog. “What?”

“I was getting stiff from not moving my legs. I was afraid to kick him.”

“I don’t think it would have mattered. He seems to adore you.”

“Jealous?”

“Damned right I am. I get up at the crack of dawn to take him out. I rush home to feed him. I can’t go away for a weekend. I buy him the most expensive food, give him treats, and even cook for myself once in a while just so he can have leftovers. And how does he show his appreciation? By worshipping a total stranger!”

“You sound just like a Jewish mother. In fact, you sound just like
my
Jewish mother.”

“Does that mean I won’t have to convert for you?”

“Yeah. Anyone who can lay the guilt on a dog will make a big hit with my family.”

Louise laughed spontaneously. Without making any effort to tone down the volume of her usual guffaw, or to tell a funnier joke, or to soften the loud chortle that would suddenly seem to be the only sound in a room, without even trying, she knew her laugh was a dainty, ladylike trill. Because her heart was giggling.