Connections (4 page)

“Something wrong?”

“No, sorry,” Jason answered Suzanne, his sales clerk. “What did you say?”

“I told that guy
you’d
have to help him. The lens is mounted wrong, and he can’t get it off the camera. I was afraid of breaking it. Here. I’ll finish the lab receipts.”

“Thanks.” Jason went to help the customer, realizing how distracted he’d been. He knew he had been pouting all morning. First, he tried being indignant, but he couldn’t maintain his anger when his chest was swollen with heartache. He wanted to come right out and say what he felt. But he was afraid Chris would just snicker in that demeaning way and walk out. Then where would he be? The very thought tore him apart. Even now, in anticipation of the threat, he wanted to cry, plead, and say, “I know you’re pissed off because I’ve been acting stupid. But it’s only because I need you so much.”

He knew that would be the end for sure. Chris hated that kind of needing, that helplessness, accusing Jason of leaning too hard, like a drunk against a lamppost. The more he recognized the truth of it, the more Jason wanted to crawl into Chris’s arms, admit he was weak, and beg forgiveness. Then have Chris stroke him and hold him, like a baby.

“That’s okay.” He waved his hand in dismissal as the man took his wallet out. “No charge.”

Jason had always considered himself a fairly independent, self-sufficient person. Until he’d met Chris. Then he realized all his previous affairs had been casual ones. It was easy to be strong when you didn’t care that much. With Chris, his insides boiled and his doubts and reservations melted, flowed right out of him. All the poetry and songs he’d ever heard equated love with giving. But it wasn’t until he was forty-nine years old that Jason Ruderman fell so in love with someone that he unconsciously and naturally gave of himself.

Now he was scared that he was going to smother Chris. He only held on so tightly because he was afraid of losing him.

He had to stop acting this way. He
would
stop. Right away. Chris had given him so much. Confidence in himself, what he was,
who
he was. He’d taught Jason to believe in himself. Even opening the shop had been Chris’s doing. And if it ended this very second, Jason would be a better person for the relationship. Because loving had given him freedom—from himself and his own fears. He owed Chris at least as much—freedom.

Gratitude and affection surged through him. Filled with tenderness and warmth, he nodded to Suzanne as he went into the small sanctuary of his darkroom. He turned the knob once beyond its stop, and the red bulb switched on over the door. Even though he didn’t use it for that purpose anymore, since the computerized self-serve kiosks took over the picture business, he occasionally developed special photographs. And he relished the privacy of the dark, inhaling the smell of the chemicals as if it was an aphrodisiac. He took out his cell phone and dialed Chris’s number. It went right to voicemail, so he tried his direct line.

“Christopher Barrett’s office,” his secretary answered, and Jason’s ribs tightened over his heart.

The stark gray walls made Clifford think this was another institution where white-coated people would attach wires or machines to him or pretty ladies would ask questions. When they went to the desk, he heard his parents speaking, but the words droned in his brain. Beyond the waiting people and the desks, there was a long counter with animals on it. People were signing papers and carrying big cartons with holes in them. There was barking, mewing, and yelping. Clifford didn’t understand what was happening, but apprehension made him hold tight when his father took his hand and followed a fat girl down a narrow hallway toward two doors.

Clifford needed to follow the same routine every day. Exactly. He wanted to be told what he was going to do, when he was going to do it, where he was going to go. This was all different.

Clifford didn’t read or watch television or listen to stories read to him, so he couldn’t fear the usual monsters, villains, dragons, or bogeymen that haunted childhood nightmares. But the shapeless, formless demons his solitary soul created, the fiendish horrors his mind invented, clutched him from within and rooted him to the floor with terror.

Lenny pulled him, but he was paralyzed. Jessica knelt down and said “It’s okay, darling, this is going to be fun. You’re going to have a friend. It’s okay. Mommy and Daddy aren’t going to let anything hurt you.”

He stiffened as she put her arms around him to reassure him. Over his head, Lenny Marcus gave his wife a defeated look that said her idea was a flop before it took off.

Frustrated but determined, Jessica put her hands under Clifford’s armpits and tugged him straight. She hoisted him right off the floor, waited until her husband held open the first door, and then set him down on the other side of the threshold.

About two dozen cages decorated the sterile room. The traffic whooshing down FDR Drive right outside seemed to make the animals jumpy. It made Clifford uneasy too. Maybe the cars were a reminder there was life—and freedom—beyond this building.

The room was air conditioned and heated, so the temperature was always comfortable. The cages were large enough for a dog to stand to its full height, unless the larger ones were already occupied and a newcomer couldn’t get the right size. The crisscross of metal helped to circulate the air and make it easier to clean. But the rods cut into the pads of the feet and left temporary ridges in bellies and sides. Smaller paws sometime slipped between them. The smell of disinfectant was testament to the fact that they were clean, as antiseptic as the walls and floors. The animals were imprisoned in agonizing and desolate misery.

Most of the dogs had at one time been part of someone, even though some of them were picked up as puppies born of strays. The craving for touch, the sound of voices, which, to many, still meant caring, was as horrible as the pain of their abandonment. The boredom, the isolation, the fear, the unnatural enclosure were worse than prison. At least there was a reason for prison. But the pathetic dogs did not deserve any punishment; their only crime was not belonging. They did not understand.

Clifford did not understand either. He only felt a wrench and a twisting of his little heart.

Their need to relate to people, to express their affection, to make contact, caused a commotion every time someone came into the room, even a familiar attendant. It was not like an orphanage where the children know one of them will be chosen and so must try to get attention. It was only the requirement of companionship that caused the furor.

The moaning and yelping echoed in Jessica’s eardrums, and she was surprised at herself, because she thought she didn’t have any pity left for anyone except Clifford. She was filled with sorrow and guilt because she couldn’t free them all or take them all home. Lenny glanced at her and saw her pain. “Look at it this way. We’re going to save one. One is better than none.” He knew what she was feeling because he felt the same way.

“I know, but it’s horrible.”

“Look.” His chin motioned for her to watch Clifford, whose head was turning in every direction.

“Aren’t they nice, honey? Do you want to keep one? You can have any one you like, and we’ll take him with us, okay?” Even though he didn’t say anything, Jessica thought her words registered. She was so used to his nonresponsiveness that she could detect the slightest difference in him…a faster blink, an extra swallow.

The smaller dogs jumped on hind legs, leaning against the metal, poking their black noses through the openings. Some of the bigger ones stood and howled or hit the cage with a paw, as if beckoning to them. For the first time in his life, Clifford felt something—excitement. His father guided him up the aisle. “Look, son, look at this cute little puppy. Do you like him?”

Clifford put his hand up to the cage, and the puppy squealed, licking him. The wet tongue tickled his palm. He smiled. Lenny and Jessica nudged one another with their eyes. They were thrilled. Clifford never smiled. They didn’t dare break the spell, their hope.

Kid-Beauty-Damn Mutt-Rowan watched the three of them. She waited, motionless. When they came closer, she looked at the smallest one and sensed the distrust that made him withdrawn. She stood then, regal in her stillness, not making a sound, not moving. Except for the white plume of tail that spun in circles behind her.

Clifford stopped in front of her, and his empty blue eyes met her dark black ones. There was a brief moment, as though time stood still, when they both saw the same solitude and loneliness, recognizing themselves in each other.

Clifford turned to his mother and pointed to the cage. “Kola.”

When he was younger, he had a koala bear that he slept with and cuddled. In an attempt to make him have the same contact with people that he had with the stuffed toy, the psychiatrist of the moment suggested Jessica take it away from him and make him transfer that need to humans. Clifford hardly spoke so he never said anything about its loss or a replacement. But occasionally, when he wanted to be held, he lifted his arms and said, “Kola.” The word was a translation of the only affection he had ever shown for anything. The toy had been gone five years; Clifford hadn’t used the word in two.

“I thought we agreed a puppy would be better. To make sure it would adjust to him,” Lenny whispered.

“What do you want me to do? Do you realize he spoke, Len? He must really want it. Let’s just see what happens.” Jessica turned to her son. “Clifford, darling, do you want to look here…come on, honey. See this one. He’s just a little baby. He wants to be picked up. Do you want to hold him?”

Clifford followed his mother and stopped with her in front of each cage. Then he walked back and stood in front of the part Retriever, part Beagle, part Terrier, part Collie, part Setter, the caramel-spotted, graceful animal, née Kid-Beauty-Damn Mutt-Rowan. He squeezed his hand through the hole. The dog sat down and nuzzled her snout against the small fingers. And whined.

The Marcuses nodded to the woman who had been watching from the door. She opened the cage and let the dog out. She tumbled over herself and them, trying to get to Clifford. Standing on her hind legs, she was as tall as he was. She dug her front paws into his shoulders and started to lick his eyes and cheeks and chin.

Lenny automatically went to support the boy, thinking he would be knocked over. Jessica put her hands out, ready to enclose him when he became afraid of the animal’s closeness and ran back to her. Lenny stood behind, waiting. Jessica squatted in front, waiting. Clifford put his arms around the dog and pressed his face into her thick neck.

Jessica blotted a tear on her face, and Lenny took a long swipe at his nose. “Come on, Kola. Let’s go home.”

Eileen cursed as the driver stepped on the brake and sent the standing passengers skidding into one another. The traffic on Third Avenue was practically at a standstill. She knew it would move faster as soon as they passed the bridge entrance on 59
^th
Street. She looked at her watch again and mumbled to herself. The young girl sitting in front of Eileen lifted a bud out of her ear and raised an eyebrow, thinking Eileen had said something to her. She looked away guiltily, afraid an acknowledgment would require her to offer her seat. Eileen realized that and stared at the girl’s head. Young people today were like that. Maybe it was because she didn’t look that old.
Hah, you old bat,
she told herself.
Who’re you kidding?

Eileen bent slightly so she could look out the window. She couldn’t see the sky, but she knew from the shadows on the glass and concrete that dusk would soon start to settle on the city. Frantically, she searched the street past the driver’s head and saw that the confusion of cars and trucks and cabs thinned out a few blocks away. She had nobody to blame but herself. Everybody yelled at her to take cabs. The last time she went to the doctor, Danny had said, “Even if it’s the middle of the afternoon, you could splurge. At your age, why do you have to be bothered waiting in line, climbing up those high steps, standing all the way, and then walking from a bus stop? Take a taxi, dammit.” Easy for him to say, easy for her friends. What did they know about her situation?

Her friend Patsy had announced one day, “Don’t kid me, Eileen Hargan. You’ve got piles stashed away. What with your Social Security and your teacher’s pension…and I almost forgot the money your father left you.”

“It wasn’t very much, even forty years ago.”

“Maybe not, but I bet you still have every penny of it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Everybody counts everybody else’s money. But nobody really knows how much it costs somebody else to live.”

“How much it costs to be insecure, don’t you mean?”

“Never mind. Besides, I was brought up to save for a rainy day.”

“You have enough money saved for the next flood! You can gild your own luxury ark and last forty years on what you’ve got.”

“Mind your own business, Patsy McQuinlan.” Eileen had said it jokingly, but she was angry. Everybody thought she had a lot of money put away. What’s a lot, when you never know what you’re going to need it for? Patsy McQuinlan had five children and thirteen grandchildren. Eileen Hargan had nobody except her nephew Danny. Suppose she got sick. She wouldn’t go to one of those state-owned homes. No way. She’d go to a private place to live out the rest of her life. She had to be damned sure she could afford to do it. And if that happened, what would she do about Fibber? She’d keep the apartment and have somebody come in to live with him. No, the poor little thing would absolutely die without her. He wouldn’t understand where she’d gone. There was no place that would take her with him, that was for sure. Didn’t matter. Her mother used to say, “Don’t look on anybody else’s plate or in anybody else’s bank account.” It wasn’t anybody’s business if she wanted to live like this. She didn’t deprive herself of anything she really wanted. But she’d never, ever do this again and go down to Judy Boylan’s, unless she left there by two or three o’clock at the latest. Every other Thursday, Judy came uptown for tea and an afternoon of what they called “girlie talk.” When she left, she always said, “Maybe you’ll come by me next time, huh?” And Eileen always answered, “Maybe.” Then, when they’d talk, Eileen’d remind Judy, “You know how I hate to leave Fibber McGee if I don’t have to.” Last time, Judy said to her, “Oh, I’ve been listening to that stupid excuse for years. You’ve become a little old lady, know that? Never go out, never get dressed…in real clothes. You go as far as the supermarket and the bank and come right home. That nephew of yours, heart of gold, begs you to go for a weekend, a week, even a day. He’ll pick you up and bring you back,
with
Fibber, and you never go. You’re just shriveling up in that apartment, and it has nothing to do with your damn dog!”

So Eileen went to visit Judy Boylan down on 13
^th
Street, where she’d lived for the past forty-seven years. Just to prove Judy was wrong. Eileen had to admit she hadn’t minded so much. It was an excursion for her. She put on a pretty dress, and shoes with little stubby heels. As a last thought, she even wore her black spring hat and carried white gloves. Then she noticed she was the only person on the bus with gloves, so she folded them and put them in her pocketbook. No, it wasn’t so bad, unless she thought of Fibber, and then a longing for him stabbed her. She knew he’d be okay alone. He always was when she went out to do errands. But she didn’t like to stay away so long. She missed him. But she also realized she was apprehensive about other things more than about him.

Now, as she gratefully stepped through the back doors of the bus someone held open for her and started toward home, the block between Third and Second, it began—the anxiety that fluttered in her chest, tickling her ribs. It was still light enough outside, but things happened even in broad daylight. The fear that someone would break in when she was out and would be there waiting for her when she returned was unbearable. As she walked down the pretty tree-lined streets with the well-kept brownstones wedged between large buildings, it all looked so harmless and peaceful. But hurrying along, Eileen imagined sitting on the toilet…a grotesque man lunging at her from behind the shower curtain. She pictured him hiding in the bedroom closet, waiting and watching out of a narrow slit while she got undressed, and then he would charge out and attack her. Or he would be under the couch when she sat on it to watch television and would grab her ankles and pull her by her feet, looking up her bathrobe, between her legs. However he got her, he would do terrible, perverted things to her. But he probably wouldn’t have to kill her. Because she would choke to death on her own terror.

When she was rational, she asked herself why Fibber wouldn’t bark to warn her. But she had the answer all ready. He would be drugged, of course. Part of her fear concerned her beloved little Boston Terrier helplessly watching her being murdered, too lethargic to come to her rescue. Her body might lie there for days or weeks before somebody found her, before Danny might be worried and drive into the city. Poor Fibber would starve to death by then or die of a broken heart.

As she climbed the steps to the front door, Eileen braced herself. If he wasn’t already inside, she knew what happened to old ladies. She thrust the key into the inside lobby door, picturing a hulking black man sneaking in behind her…waiting until she was at her own apartment, waiting until he heard the click of her lock, waiting until she opened the door. And then he would be behind her, pushing her inside, a knife against her back. He would tie her up to a kitchen chair and gag her. She would watch him ransacking her things, waiting for him to come back to rape her, to do unmentionable things, and—finally—mutilate her body with his knife.

Her heart thumped; her arms broke out in goose pimples. She wanted to turn around and check behind her, but the hairs on the back of her neck weighed her down with such a heaviness that she couldn’t swivel her head. Her bladder was full.

She unlocked the apartment and rushed inside, dropping her bag on the floor. She slammed the door quickly, bolting it before it had closed tight, so that she had to open it and close it again. Fibber, alive and crying his delight, jumped on her. His stump of a tail moved back and forth like a scolding finger. Eileen bent to hug him. With one arm, she clutched him tightly; with the other, she crossed herself. She wailed a Hail Mary in gratitude for her safety, and wet her pants.