Connections (23 page)

Laurie was greeted by a soft breeze as she climbed up from the 77
^th
Street station. The early morning air was a refreshing reminder that fall was only a few weeks away. But it was still early. By lunchtime, when she went out to pick up a sandwich or a yogurt to bring back to the office, it would be hazy, hot, and humid, just as the weather report threatened. Some things they got right.

While she stood at the counter waiting for her muffin to be toasted, she looked through the window of the coffee shop at the Upper East Siders on their way downtown. From where she changed from the Flushing line at Grand Central, she sometimes took the express to 86
^th
Street and then walked back to 74
^1h
. She was always early, so she didn’t have to rush, and she enjoyed the exercise. This morning, she was even half an hour earlier than usual, having gotten up long before her alarm went off.

“Where’s my English down?” the counterman shouted into the kitchen as he continued to fill containers of regular coffee.

Laurie could see two torsos through the cut-out in the wall. Two very hairy chests and four furry arms sticking out of white uniforms, already stained with blotches of oil and grease, moved in and out of view. She watched the frame like a marionette stage, amazed at the irony of places like this, keeping the counters looking clean, the bubble domes over the Danish looking spotless, the stainless steel looking polished…and keeping help that always looked greasy.

Laurie walked down Lexington, holding the white bag of breakfast in her left hand. Since she was going against the crowd headed to the subway station, she liked to pretend she lived here in the city and was just walking to her apartment, that she didn’t have to travel to it via two subway lines. She hated commuting. If she lived in a real suburb, she wouldn’t mind, but Queens was just as much city as Manhattan was, only without the excitement and sophistication. Or convenience. Someday, she dreamed, they’d get married and move to the country, raise a few large dogs, and have a menagerie of animals roaming around. They could keep his apartment in town for those times when they would come in for the theater or an affair or dinner in a special restaurant. Felix and Oscar would hate it, having other animals around. Well, she wouldn’t let them spoil her fantasy. She wouldn’t worry about them until she had to face the decision.

Laurie enjoyed being “Mrs. Pomalee” as she turned down 74
^th
Street and continued to walk east toward York. She unlocked the door to the office and entered, setting her paper bag down on the corner table that held the magazines, and went in the back to turn on the air conditioner. She put all her things on the reception desk and then sat down, breathing hard, trying not to move too much until it cooled off a bit. She took her shoes out of her tote bag and exchanged them for the sneakers she’d been wearing. She unpacked her breakfast, threw away the skimpy, damp napkins, went to the sink in the nearest examining room and pulled two paper towels from the dispenser to use as a placemat.

Just as she crunched into the English muffin, she thought she heard a door upstairs click softly. She stopped in mid-bite, straining to listen. Since Dr. Pomalee’s apartment was high on the fourth floor and completely sound-proof, it was impossible to hear anything up there. It sounded almost like it came from her own office, two stories above where she sat now. She went to the foot of the staircase and yelled, “Hello? Anyone there?”

The dogs on the floor beneath her started howling and barking. She couldn’t hear anything more, so she shrugged to herself and went back to the desk, where she ate her muffin. She made a mental note to leave a memo for Stacy to straighten out the magazines in the waiting room.

The aluminum foil made a tinny squeak as she crumbled it up. At the same time she thought she felt, more than heard, a muffled creak, like a step on a wooden floorboard covered with carpet. Even though the air conditioner was droning steadily, the temperature hadn’t dropped enough to cool off the office. But goose pimples sprouted up and down Laurie’s arms.

Rosa pushed the handle of the leash all the way up her arm to free her hand. She closed her left eye and screwed up her cheeks so tightly that she could hardly see out of the right eye. She took a step back, her mouth open, grimacing in concentration. Her finger finally pressed the camera’s button down, and her whole body jumped as the shutter sprang open. “Got it!”

“You better do it again,” Hector said, relaxing his smile.

“Why? You look-a great.”

“Yes, but I think you had your finger over the lens.”

“Oy!” Rosa stretched her hands out to look at them still holding the camera in the same position. “Ay-yi-yi, I did. Okay, again. Move the broom more. I can see the handle. That’s it.” Her face resumed its distorted expression as she dug the camera into the bridge of her nose and moved it a fraction in each direction. “Okay, ready? I’m gonna snap. Hold still now. Keep smiling.”

“Take it already,” the super urged, just as Rosa clicked.

“You moved. You shouldn’ta talk.”

“That’s because you take so damn long. Now I know why them models get so much for posing all day. It’s hard work, standing still.”

“Oh, stop. If it come out good, I give it to you.”

“Okay. Now you mind if I go back to work?” He winked and touched the visor of his mesh cap in salute; then he turned back to the high-rise to finish sweeping.

“Yes, you can go. If you so anxious to work!”

Rosa strolled up 83
^rd
Street, appraising the trees and buildings and pedestrians for their photographic possibilities. She stopped to consider the flower box on the first floor of a brownstone, the pansies brightening up the metal security gates in front of the open window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an SUV slow down and double-park. She raised the camera in front of her face and peered over the top of it to watch the Puerto Rican driver get out. He was carrying a large manila envelope. He checked the number of the nearest house and started to walk in Rosa’s direction. She slowly aimed the camera at the flower box, stepped back as if to frame the shot but then quickly turned around and snapped the messenger’s picture. She picked up Princess, holding her in her left arm while her right hand steadied the camera thumping against her breasts from the end of the strap around her neck. She walked as fast as she could toward First Avenue and only when she turned the corner did she dare to look back to see if the messenger was running after her.

She hid in the doorway of a boutique, pretending to admire the clothes in the window. When she saw the vehicle pass the intersection a few minutes later, she exhaled loudly and went back down her block. “Are we lucky, bambina.” She squeezed Princess. “Ah, look, there he is, you boyfriend.” Rosa waved to Eileen as she came out and stood on her stoop, checking the street in both directions before going down the steps.

When they met midway, Princess squirmed in Rosa’s arms to greet Fibber McGee. She put her gently on the sidewalk, patted the camera, and excitedly told Eileen about the picture she had managed to get.

“But he was probably just an innocent bystander.”

“Maybe. But suppose he wasn’t? And anyway, who gets envelopes delivered by messenger around here?”

Eileen shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“As soon as I get the pictures developed, I’ll show you. You can see if he looks familiar, if you ever saw him before.”

“And if I did?”

“Well, we can go to the police or that nice Mr. Hollis and have real evidence to show them. A face. A possible suspect.”

“Well…”

“In the meantime, here—hold this.” Rosa took her leash and handed it to Eileen so she could walk to the curb. “I gonna take pictures of the dogs.”

“What for?”

“In case…” Rosa didn’t finish her thought: in case they end up missing. Instead, she said, “In case we have nothing to do some night. We drink a little vino, we look at the pictures. I show you an old family album. You show me. We get sentimental from the pictures. Good idea, hah?”

Louise stood in front of the window, spreading her arms out like wings and then clutching her hands together, weaving her fingers tight. When she stretched her arms above her head in luxurious abandonment, her long T-shirt rode up her hips, exposing the cheeks sticking out from the band of her underpants.

Ken was watching her from the dining room table, which was covered with his notes and a pile of half-used legal pads. He’d been trying to write, but he couldn’t help looking up again and again to stare at her. He thought she was sexier in her oversized shirt and naked legs, her inner thighs scraping together, her bare feet suctioned to the dusty wood floor, than some women he’d seen in satin baby-dolls and high-heeled pom-pom slippers. “You know, you’re beautiful,” he said spontaneously to her back, his feelings warming his voice and his insides.

“You’re the first guy who ever said that.” Louise used her position to sway her torso a few times in mock gyrations. “Cute, maybe. Independent, definitely. Attractive, sometimes. But beautiful? Uh-uh.”

“What’d they know?” He came up to her, hugging her from behind, his forearms locked across her chest. “And for that matter, what do you know? Always trying to play yourself down. Minimize your femininity.”

She leaned against him, but her weight was rooted to the floor. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do.” He rocked with her until the game made them both laugh, and in the fun, she finally relaxed her body on his.

Honda stood on his hind legs, yelping, and tried to squeeze between them.

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint, fella. But you’ll have to fight me for her.” Ken started wrestling with the dog.

“I guess it’s women and children to the kitchen,” Louise complained good-naturedly.

Ken rolled on the floor with Honda, enjoying the background clatter of dishes, until Louise came back in and swept the books and pads to the end of the table. Ken washed up in the kitchen before he sat down. “He really has sharp teeth,” he said, examining the red marks on the back of his hands as he sat down.

“I know. Can you imagine if he didn’t
like
you?”

“Not now, Honda. Go lie down,” Ken ordered as the dog’s muzzle searched for a comfortable spot on his knees.

“He really adores you.” Louise watched her dog obediently curl up under the table. “And I adore him,” she added, looking at the big eyes staring back at her, his ears twitching as he listened. “He knows we’re talking about him.”

“I know. Don’t forget; I’m a dog person too. This makes me realize how much I miss having one.”

“Isn’t it sickening that some people could mistreat them, be so cruel to them?”

“Yes, I can’t believe what I’ve been reading. About the torture in the research labs. About the people who run the puppy mills, who manufacture dogs just to sell them to laboratories. Breed them, bring their young into the world only to live in the worst pain and fear and then die. Without ever having a chance to live. Without ever having someone pet them or feed them.”

“Yuck. You know what’s even worse? Those poor things don’t know any better. They don’t miss what they never had. But take a pet, take even Honda, having been loved and cared for all his life. If he was stolen and suddenly put into one of those places…hundreds of them dumped into a cage, piled so deep that the ones on the bottom suffocate or get crushed to death, starving, afraid, wondering where his mother—I mean, where I am. God, I get nauseated thinking about it. I would die if something like that ever happened to him.” Her voice faded as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Well, it happens to some pets. And just the threat of it is enough for people like you, who love their dogs, to cough up whatever the dognappers ask for,” Ken called in to her. “I wanna show you some of the leaflets I got. You wouldn’t believe the pictures.”

“No way. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know.” Louise put the mugs of coffee down and went back in the kitchen, continuing the chatter. “Ever since you told me about that poor old lady, I haven’t been sleeping so good, worrying about Honda.”

Even though Honda was tired from playing and his eyes were half-closed, he struggled to keep them open as he tried to follow the conversation.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Louise said, bringing in the basket of rolls and bagels. “I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“Okay. Let’s change the subject. See, I told you—you don’t have to worry about meeting my parents on Labor Day. I’ll tell ’em you make breakfast just like a Jewish mother. But you have to learn one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Never do that in front of them.” He pointed to her plate. “Do what?”

“Put American cheese on a bagel.”

Clifford’s image gaped at Jessica from posters on the sidewalk. The photograph was muddy, the enlargement too grainy. The space where the head should have sloped down to the neck was filled in, the contour of the face lost in dark blotches of toner. The wavy blond hair was inked into a black hat sliding onto the forehead. Crude shadings formed a barely recognizable nose and chin. Lids and lashes were washed away, yet the eyes that stared from the middle of the hazy features were haunting. The slightly open mouth was bisected by the thin twine tied around a bundle of printed posters, as if gagging a scream.

Jessica tore off a long piece of masking tape, slid a poster from under the twine, and taped it to the lamppost. She pushed her supplies ahead of her to the next pole, which was a NO PARKING sign. She looked across the street and noticed that Lenny was already at the corner, taping a poster to the traffic light. He crossed over and started on her side, working back until they met each other.

“Which way should we go—68
^th
or 70
^th
?” Jessica asked, looking around her, trying to decide.

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go down and then we can stop over there and have a cup of coffee first.” Lenny pointed to the luncheonette sign.

“Let’s not waste time.”

“In this heat, preventing a heart attack or sunstroke is not a waste of time. I have to sit inside for a few minutes. Cool off.”

She reluctantly put everything into her shopping cart. “Okay.”

As soon as they spread out in a booth at the luncheonette, Lenny blotted his face and the back of his neck with a paper napkin. “Whew, it’s hot out there.”

Jessica didn’t answer. She took a poster out of her tote bag and stood it at the end of the table, propped against the wall. “It doesn’t even look like him. I hate it.”

Lenny adjusted the picture slightly so he could face it directly. “Yes, it does. Granted, it’s a lousy copy, but that’s how he looks.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“You just still see him the way he used to be. With that emptiness. The vacant stare.”

“No. It’s just that…I don’t know…that expression on his face is…”

“What?”

Jessica shrugged. “Pathetic? Pitiful. Something. Something I don’t like.”

“Nah, not pathetic. Sad, maybe. Yeah, the little guy looks sad. Lonely.”

“But that can’t be. He’s not sad, and he’s not lonely. That’s why I hate it.”

Lenny didn’t even glance at the waitress when he said, “I’ll have fried eggs, up, and bacon and rye toast. And an iced coffee.” He looked at Jessica. “You?”

Jessica didn’t speak.

“Give her the same—no, wait, how about an order of French toast? French toast and another iced coffee. Thanks.”

He nodded to the waitress, who scribbled on her pad and then waved her pencil at Lenny in acknowledgment. And sympathy.

“We should’ve taken one of him with Kola,” Jessica said. “Somebody might recognize the dog.”

“Yes, too bad we don’t have one like that,” Lenny agreed. “But it’s okay. The sign says he might be with a dog. And it’s a good description of her.”

The coffees came, and Jessica occupied herself with stirring hers with the straw. “Maybe we should have looked for a better picture. Full view. To give a feeling of his size.”

“There was no time, Jess. You know that. The police needed it right away. Besides, it says he’s eleven years old. How big could he be? People can tell. If they see him, they’ll know it’s him.”

“Oh, my baby.” Jessica rummaged in her pocketbook as the tears started flowing. When she couldn’t find a tissue, she pulled a napkin out of the old-fashioned dispenser, held it over both of her eyes, and sobbed into her palm.

Lenny grabbed her wrist and held it until she quieted. “They’re gonna find him. I promise you. Kola will protect him. You know that. And you know, he’s a pretty smart little kid, our Clifford. He can take care of himself.”

“No, no, he can’t. He’s so helpless.”

“Not anymore.” It occurred to Lenny as he listened to Jessica cry and moan that maybe she wasn’t happy with the way Clifford had gotten better. Her whole life had been wrapped around him, taking care of him, escorting him from doctor to clinic to specialist to therapy. For almost a decade. Was it possible that she resented that she could no longer be his keeper, no longer be a martyr, with everybody saying, “Poor Jessica; she can’t let that child out of her sight for a second.” Could she miss the old Clifford? Could she be just a little scared of her freedom now? It was something to bring up. Later. When Clifford was back home. And wouldn’t that be a real pisser? Lenny’s being jealous that his son was dependent on Jessica when maybe it was the other way around—the mother dependent on the son.

He furiously shook pepper onto his eggs.

Jessica wailed “No-o-o!” just as the waitress placed her order in front of her.

“Was he wrong?” the waitress asked. “You don’t like French toast?” She quickly withdrew the plate.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I love French toast.”

The waitress replaced the plate and left. Jessica started giggling through her sobs.

“Thatta girl,” Lenny encouraged her. “Give the poor woman an inferiority complex. Rejecting her French toast!” He smiled as Jessica started to eat.

“Why’d you think he looked lonely?” Jessica asked as she poured maple syrup over the French toast.

Lenny shrugged. “I dunno. He does. At least in the picture. Maybe he reminded me of…”

“Of what?”

Lenny shrugged again and turned slightly to look at the photo. He tried to avoid the eyes appealing to him but was held by them. He saw not Clifford but Leonard Marcus as a boy. And for the first time, he shared a secret with his son.