Connections (16 page)

Rosa took Princess down to the river. Even though it was much too hot for such a long walk, she needed to go there. Both of them were slowed by arthritic legs and tired hearts. The sun was strong; it seemed to suck the color out of everything. There weren’t too many people on 84
^th
between First and East End, the street she chose for her route. She always tried to walk down a different block so she could say hello to old friends in the neighborhood and enjoy a little change of scenery. She already planned to come home across 86
^th
Street and hopefully catch palsied, cranky Mr. Untermeyer sitting on his stoop.

Princess’s nostrils started contracting to catch the river smell. “
Dolce
,
dolce
, eh?” Rosa also wrinkled her nose, and they both perked up once they had sight of the trees, rippled in the haze, and the outline of Gracie Mansion peeking through them. A slight breeze from the water fluttered her hair, and Rosa lifted her head so it could touch her neck. Princess could not know what was special about their tree or that its twisted roots had stretched over the years, like gnarled old fingers, to cover the little grave beneath it, but she galloped toward it. Even though Rosa realized it was only because Princess knew that’s where they were headed, she felt it was an omen.

It was a long time since she had buried Princess II here, but Rosa still felt very close to her. It was comforting to sit sideways on the end of the bench beneath the awning of leaves, her toes engraving a cross in the loose dirt behind it. It was a good place to think.

She didn’t know exactly where to start in thinking about trying to solve the mystery. It could be anyone. Young, old. Man, woman. She had no ideas. No clues. What should she look for? Who? That young girl across from her, eating a sandwich, with the foil wrapper lying like a napkin in her lap, glinting in the sunlight. Her? Maybe she was sending signals, like they did to ships. Maybe she was telling someone that Rosa could be the next victim. “Ah, the heat, it makes me crazy, bambina,” she said aloud, while trying to memorize a description of the suspect—just in case. What she really needed was a camera. She slapped her thighs at the conclusion. “That’s what we get, Princess, a camera. A little tiny one like they give for spies. Maybe to hide in a lighter. Your mama, she might have to start smoking.”

“We have to talk.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

“What things.”

“Things going on between us.”

“I didn’t know there was anything going on between us.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. That there really isn’t anything going on between us anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what it sounds like.” Jessica had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, yet here she was, tears hovering over her eyeballs. She blinked; the bubbles broke and leaked out from under her lids. One perfect drop shimmered on her cheek before she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “This is not what I had in mind when I said ‘talk.’”

“What
did
you have in mind?” Lenny asked.

“I thought we could sit down and have a real conversation. Talk about our feelings—our feelings about each other.”

“I don’t have any feelings about it, one way or the other, so I guess there’s nothing for me to talk about.”

“See, that’s the problem. We’re just going around in circles. Okay, you don’t think there’s anything to talk about; I do. So does that mean I’m not allowed to talk because you have nothing to say?”

Lenny looked at her for a moment and then went back into the tiny entrance they pretended was a foyer.

Jessica followed him, watching him methodically and deliberately smooth the sleeves of his seersucker jacket before hanging it in the closet. “That your answer? Huh?”

He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and splashed water on his face.

She waited in the doorway. “And you think we have nothing to talk about? A man who comes home and doesn’t even have the courtesy to speak to his wife? A man who uses silence as a punishment? And you think I’m the one with a problem?” Jessica’s face reddened with anger; she turned away before he could notice.

Kola slithered into the bedroom after her, sat in front of the bed, and put her head in Jessica’s lap. Unconsciously, Jessica stroked her, squeezed the fur on the back of her neck, and rubbed her finger over the hard ridge of Kola’s brow. Calmed, Jessica bent over until their noses touched. She looked deep into the eyes that were pleading with her to be happy.

“Poor girl, don’t worry; nobody’s going to abandon you. What would we do without you? We almost found out the day you ran away, didn’t we? Thank God someone grabbed your leash. And thank God I had my cell phone number engraved on your collar. You really scared us, girl.”

Jessica wrapped her arms around Kola. A long, pink tongue unfolded to lick the traces of salt from Jessica’s face.

Trying to hurry through Penn Station on a Friday night in summer was like trying to do the breast stroke in quicksand. Rush hour started at noon and lasted all night. The throngs milled around, waiting for the boards to post the track numbers. When a departure was announced, a mass of people moved in the direction of the gate, poking their overnight bags and totes and animal carriers and packages into one another and keeping very close so nobody could break into their midst. The mercury in the station always seemed to climb to ninety-nine, no matter what the temperature was outside. The density of the heat, the condensation from body perspiration, the heaviness of the air, and the thickness of the humidity vaporized and hung like balloons suspended from the ceiling.

More people arrived and departed at Penn Station on any given day than lived in Barbados and Iceland combined. More than the entire populations of Kansas City and Albuquerque and Seattle. More than the state of Wyoming.

Friday night is the worst
, Ken Hollis thought as he tried to get through the Amtrak waiting room to the Long Island Rail Road,
but when it falls on the eve of July Fourth weekend—a four-day weekend for most people—forget it
. Ken had made the mistake of thinking the station would be cooler than the steaming sidewalks and had entered in the middle of the block, instead of Seventh Avenue. He loosened his tie as he squeezed through the people. He opened the top two buttons of his shirt, which was translucent with sweat. He refolded the suit jacket hanging limply over his arm. The 4:26 to Montauk cleared out hundreds of weekenders destined for the Hamptons, but the hole their departure left filled up instantly.

Penn Station had a thousand “movements” a day. Although the official terminology referred to trains, not bowels, it seemed to Ken that their rumblings on the loops and curls of track beneath the city could be likened to a huge monster’s digestive tract, to swallowing and then eliminating the population. The LIRR alone scheduled 735 commuter trains a day, and all it took was one ten-minute delay or one cancellation to start a rash of bad jokes on the Internet and a series of protests in the newspaper.

Ken went into one of the crowded bar joints, hoping for a cold beer, but he couldn’t get near enough to the bar to order one. He left and walked as close to the center of the waiting room as he could, so he’d have an equal chance of making it to a track on either side. He was anxious for tomorrow morning. He’d leave home early—there shouldn’t be anybody going into the city—pick her up at nine. He’d probably run into heavy traffic going back out, but it just would have been too hectic to try it tonight. Especially with the dog. He knew she wouldn’t want to leave him with anybody or board him and probably would have turned Ken down if he hadn’t invited Honda. But the truth was, he was just as excited about showing Honda a good time and letting him run around as he was about having Louise there.

He wanted to make love to her again. Slowly this time. Caringly. In his bed. After spending the day with her. He surprised himself, wanting her there in his house. Thinking of her now, as sluggish as he felt, with the sweat dripping inside his clothes, there was a throbbing in his groin. He moved his jacket in front of him. The garbled voice announcing the 4:37 to Bethpage jolted him out of his reverie. As he was carried along to Track 7 by the stampeding herd, he had a smile on his face.

Fibber McGee lay down on the sidewalk and refused to budge. His head was pillowed on his front paws straight in front of him, and if it weren’t for his stump of a tail wobbling behind him, he would have appeared dead or overcome with heat prostration. Eileen tried to pull him to a standing position, but he stubbornly hugged the concrete. She peered into the distance to see the object of his attention. Princess was prancing toward them at the end of her leash, with Rosa Bassetti panting for breath behind her. As they neared, Mr. McGee stood, gracefully paralyzed in anticipation. They faced each other on hind legs. Then, almost bowing an invitation to her, he danced around her. Princess preened at his courting.

Rosa’s bones groaned as she bent to pet him. He ignored her. “So, you see your boyfriend, bambina. He make your day? Wouldn’t it be nice,” she continued to Eileen, “if we—I mean, people—could get so happy from so little. So…how you comin’ along?”

“Fine, I’m fine now. Really. Even my nephew says that since I paid them, they won’t be back. Won’t bother me anymore.”

“We hope. Did you think anymore about if it could be anyone you know?”

“No. How could I ever figure out who it could be? Fibber, now you stop that, you hear?” She tugged him away from Princess’s rear. “You all ready for the noise this weekend?”

“Nah. I give my Princess some aspirin at night. Like tranquilizers they are. They start setting off firecrackers, the poor thing she goes crazy from the noise. They ought to have a law against them.”

“They do, you know. But nobody pays attention. So what are you doing to celebrate?”

“Me? Just like any other day to me. Same as New Year’s Eve. Or my birthday. You?”

“Oh, I’m not doing anything. My nephew invited me for the whole weekend. I could go for a week, if I wanted. Or forever. But…well, I don’t like to go too far. I like staying in my own house. Sleeping in my own bed. Don’t we, Mr. McGee?”

“Me, too. Hey, why you don’t come? I open a nice bottle of Chianti. We have a little chicken. I even take out my flag—from when I become a citizen—and we drink to America. To independence. Come on, say yes.” Rosa was buoyant at the idea of an impromptu party. “Do it for him.” She nodded toward the dog. “He deserves a holiday too. I make something special, some stew, for our little sweethearts.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Sure you know. We have a good time. I go shopping now. You come—when? Five, five-thirty?”

“Okay,” Eileen said with a laugh. It might be fun for a change. She hadn’t been out of the house for dinner in ages. “I’ll bring dessert.”

“Good, good, I get busy now.” As Rosa hurried down the street, she warned her dog under her breath, “You don’t get too excited now. You too old to be Princess McGee.

🙧

Laurie felt foolish lying on a beach towel in the grass in shorts and a tank top, when so many people were walking by wearing their street clothes. But in another two hours, there wouldn’t be room for one more sunbather in Forest Park. She was determined to get some color, and to Relax—with a capital R. After only twenty minutes here, she was fidgety. She knew she’d never last the two hours she had promised herself. She watched the joggers on the path in front of her and silently asked how people could be running in weather like this. And in nylon workout outfits too! She sat up and spread the
Times
in front of her, smoothing out each page as she turned it. It was an uncomfortable position, with nothing to lean on. Besides, she couldn’t read with her sunglasses, because the prescription was for distance, and couldn’t see without them because of the glare. She closed the paper, folded it in half, and tucked it back in her tote bag. She rubbed her hands together but the suntan lotion spread the black stain of newsprint.

It was 10:20—an hour and forty minutes to go. She wondered what Dr. Pomalee was doing this weekend. He’d be picking up his kids, but would he conveniently run into his ex-wife? Would he come back into the city at the end of the day (silly), or stay in the guest room (most likely)? His children were too old to be picked up; they probably had their own plans with their friends anyway. So maybe he’d just visit for a while. And stay for dinner. Or maybe they wouldn’t be home at all, and he wouldn’t even go because there’d be nothing for him to do, nobody to see. So he’d stop in the office and check on some of the animals. Especially since they had two post-ops.

Now 10:25—an hour and thirty-five minutes left. No matter what, she absolutely was not going to the office until Wednesday, July 5
^th
. She was totally underpaid for a forty-hour workweek and if she counted all the extra time she put in, she probably wouldn’t even be making minimum wage. Well, it was her own fault. It’s not as if Dr. Pomalee asked her to come in. She did it on her own time. He had no idea how much time she spent there. Or did he?

Of course, it would be nice and quiet, a good time to make a big dent in her data input. All those statistics would take forever at this rate. It was so much easier to work on the desktop and then put her work on a flash drive and bring it home to her laptop. And this would be a perfect time to bring the stray home; the subway would be empty. If Dr. Pomalee went to the office at all, it would be late in the day. But she’d never know because she wouldn’t be there to find out!

Only 10:30. An hour and a half more.

🙧

Even with the windows wide open, the apartment smelled from paint. So did Jason. He didn’t mind that so much, but the turpentine fumes and its residue stinging his arms made the inside of his stomach itchy. “I’m gonna jump in the shower now, okay?”

“Okay, that’s it. Finished. What d’ya think?” Chris cocked his head in the doorway and studied their handiwork. “Think it’s too much?”

Jason came up behind him, playfully, tiredly, and dug his chin into Chris’s shoulder. “Only for people who don’t like sex in the kitchen.”

“Come on, really.”

“I think once we put the knickknacks back and hang the baskets on the walls, it’ll look great. Maybe we shouldn’t have done the refrigerator, though.”

“Well, it would’ve looked terrible if we had left it white.” Chris backed up far enough to stand next to Jason, draping his arm loosely around Jason’s neck. “It kinda grows on you.”

“So does mold.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. I’m going to go soak in the shower, put on a pair of white ducks, and then, know what I’d like? I’d like to take a walk in the fresh air, even if it is steamy, go sit outdoors at an open café, and have a nice dinner, a few drinks. I’d like to not think about having to wash all the dishes and glasses and pots tomorrow and put everything away. And not talk about the letter, okay?”

“Okay by me.”

“Good.” Jason took off his T-shirt as he headed toward the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of a wet, black nose sticking out from under the couch. “I hope you’re damned grateful, Sabrina!” he yelled.

“For what?”

He knew Chris would ask, and he was ready with an answer. “That dogs are color blind!” His shirt snapped as he swiped it at the air.