Connections (5 page)

Chris lit a cigarette, drew on it deeply, and blew in Jason’s face playfully.

“Thanks a whole lot,” Jason said, coughing.

“Don’t let her bother you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t even thinking about her,” Jason said. He picked up the piece of paper on the night table, read it again silently, and then recited it aloud in a low voice. “‘And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman.’ Genesis. Chapter two, verse twenty-three.”

“Wait ’til she gets to the New Testament. We’ll be in for a lot of ‘ye sinners.’”

“First we have to go through all the ‘thou shalt nots.’”

“How about, ‘Thou shalt not fuck around with us, Mrs. Pedersen’?”

Jason laughed.

“Seriously, does it bother you?”

“Not in the way you think. Maybe a couple of years ago it would’ve bothered me. Now I’m just angry.”

“Don’t waste your energy being angry at her. She’s not worth it.”

“I know. All the more reason I can’t get over her audacity. Thinking she’s better than we are, than I am. Thinking she has the right to judge. The nerve.”

Nettie Pedersen lived on the top floor, probably so she could be closer to God. There would have been a saintliness, a holiness to her devotion and worship, if it weren’t for two things: One, she ordained herself as the Almighty’s interpreter and spokesman; and, two, she was married to a drunk.

She had been overheard commenting to neighbors about two gays having moved into the building. People shrugged, as if to say “so what?” In this day and age, who cared? She made a formal complaint to the landlord about renting to homosexuals. That was before same-sex marriage became a reality. He patiently explained that they both had signed the lease and besides, the law allowed two people of any kind to cohabit. He politely told her that as long as there were no wild parties, drug-related crimes, or loud music, she should mind her own business.

She then tried to have Jason and Chris evicted on the basis that pets weren’t allowed. They weren’t, in most New York City rentals. But since this was an old building with some elderly rent-controlled tenants who had animals but no lease, and since the landlord himself had a German Shepherd, he didn’t care. He patiently told her, in so many words, that as long as the dog didn’t bark all night or shit in the lobby, she should mind her own business.

Nettie Pedersen was so sure of her righteousness that she did all these things out in the open and even put copies of her letters under their door. When it was obvious that her campaign was getting nowhere, she started leaving Bible quotes for them—anonymously.

“Before I knew you, I would’ve been…bothered,” Jason admitted. “Ashamed that people knew. But not anymore.”

“Good.” Chris put his arm around Jason and blew a smoke ring up to the ceiling. “I know you’ve changed. I’m glad you see it in yourself.”

“You know I do. See all the good things in myself that you’ve brought out. I’ll always be grateful to you.”

“They were there all along, Jason, only you just didn’t see them yourself.”

“I feel good about myself. Even good about being able to look her in the eye and not cringe. I know who I am, and guess what? I like myself, generally speaking. I’m proud that you like me too. You know what’s wonderful? All my life, I felt so humiliated, so afraid someone would find out. Now, I’m not ashamed anymore. I feel free, because I can be myself. I’m me and people will either like me or not like me. I don’t have to please them. I don’t have to please anyone except myself. And you, of course.” He pinched Chris’s cheek. “Oh, my God, and of course, you too.” He nuzzled Sabrina who was lying flat on her stomach between them, listening.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone or cause anyone pain. But what I’m doing couldn’t hurt anyone, unless it’s me. No, that’s not true. I suppose it could hurt my family, but it shouldn’t. As close as I am to them, I never could face telling them. But now I know I’m going to. I want to. Once I do, I think they’ll even
like
me better because they’ll understand me so much better. And they’ll still love me…I’m sure of it. Once they know about you, I think they’ll be glad for me, glad that I’m happy. And I
am
happy.” Jason leaned on his elbow and stroked the thin hedge that started on Chris’s chest and wound up in the shrubbery around his groin.

Whether it was the sudden huskiness of Jason’s voice or the deep breath as Chris inhaled the smoke and pleasure, Sabrina sensed the lust, the sensuality, and leaped off to hide under the bed. Chris stubbed out his cigarette and slid down from the headboard.

Jason flicked his tongue lightly over Chris’s nipples. When they hardened, his head went back and forth, his lips sucking one, then the other. As if his flat breasts were connected to his groin, their tautness pulled his penis straight up so it dug into Jason’s belly. His own cock responded by springing to stiffness. He moved all the way down, his legs straight out, his tongue wriggling down and around, leaving glossy spots of wetness, until he got lower, and the coarseness of the pubic hair numbed his face. He kept crawling backward until his knees were off the bed and able to bend. Gently, his hands pulled Chris’s thighs farther apart. His tongue licked the underside of his testicles, lightly circling, darting into the corrugated grooves of skin, moving up the center, lingering at the spot between his balls and prick, and then fluttering beneath the long, rigid organ, measuring its length in liquid inches, reaching the tip, blowing softly with his breath, retracing it back underneath as it twitched and pulsated from his teasing. It throbbed, and Chris moaned while Jason did it again. He reached the tip, curled his tongue, glided it back and forth across the slit, and then moved it back down along the top of the petrified muscle.

Chris’s shoulders sank deeper, his buttocks lifted up to thrust into Jason’s mouth, his hands reaching for Jason’s head, pulling it down. “Oh God,” he groaned. Jason moved up, his knees straddling Chris, his torso raised so he could bring his mouth down hard over the stiff prick, deep and hard, his nose pressed into the softness of Chris’s belly. His lips held on tight as his head bobbed up and down, almost off, then down all the way, back and forth, up and down.

“Let me do you too,” Chris whispered, trying to sit up, trying to reach under Jason’s chest. Jason quickly put his hand where his mouth was, never losing a beat of the frenzied rhythm. “I want to make you feel good. That’s making
me
feel good. I don’t want you to do anything except enjoy it.”

“I am, I am. Christ, Jason, I’m going to explode. It’s terrific. You’re terrific.” His words came out in short staccato pants, and Jason stopped talking and used his mouth again, more intensely, heaving his weight in time to Chris’s tremors until the body beneath him jerked, and the penis inside his mouth swelled, stilled, and burst in a great rush of hot syrup. Chris wailed a wordless prayer and collapsed, turning to rubber.

Jason lay with his head buried in his lover’s stomach. “You
are
bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh.”

The bed stopped thumping, the sex smell came, and the tone of voices gentled. Sabrina peeked out and knew it was over. She jumped up, wagging her tail.

Chris’s fingers played with Jason’s thick curls, kneaded his scalp. “I love you, Jason. That was wonderful.” Then he moved his hand to pet Sabrina.

“It was for me too. And you know what?”

“What?”

He bellowed up to the ceiling, “Eat your heart out, Nettie Pedersen.”

With the phone tucked in the pocket between her neck and shoulder, Jessica was able to talk while she dunked her nylon underwear in Woolite in the kitchen sink. “We can’t get over it. It’s not even a slow progression. It’s like one minute he was half-dead, in a coma. The next, he’s alive and kicking, as if nothing happened. As if all the years before now never happened.”

“I’m thrilled. What else can I say? I’m just…well, thrilled.” Michelle Kravitz’s excitement matched Jessica’s.

“It’s not only that he’s
talking
. That in itself would be a miracle. But he’s so
animated
, so enthused. All of a sudden, he wants to know everything. He’s going through a stage most kids go through when they’re two and three, asking questions and stuff. It’s like he has to catch up on all those years he missed.”

Michelle’s voice rose so much with her enthusiasm that Jessica had to move the receiver away from her ear. “I told you they’re doing it in many places. People volunteer with their pets or they get a local shelter to bring the homeless ones to people confined in institutions. It’s wonderful therapy for the disabled, for the emotionally disturbed, and especially for old people. They react; even the most withdrawn people reach out. And returning veterans suffering from PTSD, from nightmares and the stress of war, are comforted. The animals’ affection, their acceptance, bring out the best in a lot of people. Even here in the city, the ASPCA-run Pet Assisted Therapy program has been very successful”.

“I might look into it,” Jessica said.

“What for?”

“Well, I’d like to help someone else. This has been so fabulous, and I think I’d feel terrific seeing results like that, giving someone new life. It’s wonderful; it’s exciting. Will you come and see the change in Clifford?”

Michelle’s voice boomed. “Of course I will.”

“Even if they let me bring the dog over there, it wouldn’t be the same as in our own place. I want you to see for yourself, watch him talk and cuddle and
play
. Like a normal kid.”

“I promise I will. I’ll stop by one night next week on my way home. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, yes. Try to let me know the day before. I want Lenny to be here, so he can thank you too, so he can see your reaction. I can’t wait.”

Jessica rinsed out the plastic pail she used to wash the floors. She put her underwear in it so it wouldn’t drip all over and went to the bathroom to hang it in the tub. Afterward, with the empty pail swinging over her arm, she stopped in the living room archway. Clifford lay on his side, facing the TV. Kola was lying on her side next to him, her back against him—with her tail straight, she was longer than he was. Clifford’s arm was folded to pillow his head; his other was around her, stroking her massive chest. They looked like two lovers holding each other in the night. Jessica swallowed the lump in her throat. “Whacha doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Should I turn the TV off?”

“No, I’m watching. I’m just lying here, watching.”

“Don’t forget we have to go out in a little while. Our appointment’s at one.”

“I won’t. But you said they already examined her before we got her.”

“I know, but we want to make sure. Anyway, we should have our own vet, one who knows her, just in case she gets sick or anything. Besides, you heard what the lady said: it’s almost time to start the heartworm medicine for the summer.” Jessica impulsively put the pail down on the wooden floor in the hallway and then knelt beside them on the rug. “Anyway, we’re not going to let anything happen to this pretty girl, are we?” She put her face in the thick breast. The thudding of Kola’s tail echoed through Jessica’s face to her ears, in time to the beating of her own heart.

They all shifted until Jessica was on her back, with the dog’s head on one shoulder, her son’s on the other, and her arms around each of them. “I love you, Mommy,” Clifford whispered. Jessica turned her head so he wouldn’t notice the tear, which fell onto Kola’s snout. Her tongue stretched up to lick it off and then reached for Jessica’s cheeks.

Dr. Michelle Kravitz sniffled to cut the burning in her nose. She wished she could take some of the credit. Wished a modern medical discovery or treatment had cured Clifford Marcus, instead of a scroungy mutt. Realizing the intangible bond between boy and dog—a bond that couldn’t be tested or analyzed or controlled by any scientific method—made her pause in respect and awe of the things she didn’t understand, the things beyond her and her own private world.

It had been so long since she reflected on such things or had an abstract question, an emotional response. A light flickered in her dark soul. There was still love in the world. People still fell into it. Even a hopeless little boy and a sad, unwanted dog could feel its impact.

Michelle went to the window. She wanted to open it, but it was sealed, like all the windows in the building. But she could see the breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees below; she almost could feel its breath on her face, almost smell the sweetness of the flowers recently planted in the three-by-four-foot gardens on the sidewalk. She almost could feel lonely. Sad. The light flared in her and blinked. It was called hope. And she was overwhelmed—and grateful—to know that she still had any.

A few young boys hung over the railing on the top floor, looking down on their heads as they climbed up. One of them threw or spit a wad of gum into the stairwell. It just missed Louise’s hair. “
No me joda
,” Louise yelled without looking up. A few giggles overhead assured her she had used the right expression to say “Don’t fuck around with me.” The boys were laughing at the culprit, not at her. At the next landing, she ventured an upward glance, and they stepped back a little. “Hey!” she said loudly and gruffly. It was a greeting.

“Hallo,” only one of them answered. They were probably about ten or eleven years old. Any older, and she’d be petrified they’d have switchblades or ten gang members behind them. They probably did anyway. But they were still young enough to be just a little afraid of her and of their parents. She followed Yolanda Santiago up the last flight, deliberately exaggerating her panting for the boys’ entertainment. They laughed when she pretended to collapse, out of breath. She ruffled two heads as she went by, waiting for Yolanda to unlock her door.

“Elena!” The shrillness of Yolanda’s voice made it a shriek. A girl of about nine came running to kiss her. “Hi, Mommy.”

“Say hello to the lady, Elena. This is Señorita Sidway from the Welfare.” When the girl saw Louise, she swayed slightly, swinging her hands behind her back. “Come on, say hello. Hey, you want her think I don’t teach you no manners?” Elena shyly played with her skirt.

“Hello, Elena.” Louise casually dropped her hand on the girl’s shoulders. “I hear a lot about you, about how you help your mother with the twins and everything. Where’s your brother and sister?”

“They went to the store with Señora Sanchez,” she mumbled behind Yolanda.

“Gee, you’re real pretty.” Louise felt obligated to compliment her.

Elena tilted her head in a little laugh, trying to bury herself in her mother. She
was
pretty. Her long hair was in a neat ponytail. Pulled straight back, it left a few dark threads at her temples, which trailed loosely along her jawbone. She was so serious. Louise wondered how she would look with that thick hair in a short, stylish cut, bouncing with body. She’d turn into a real beauty. Unless she got pregnant during puberty or ran away from home at thirteen with some pimp. Louise saw girls like Elena, with four kids by the time they were twenty or twenty-two. They might start out trying to be good mothers, but alone, with no money, how could they cope? She hoped that wouldn’t happen to Elena.

Her mother must’ve been pretty once too. Yolanda was still attractive but haggard and worn-looking. Who wouldn’t be? After her twins were born six years ago, her husband ran back to Puerto Rico. Then her mother ran
from
Puerto Rico to suffer the last year’s ravages of cancer, living with her daughter. The husband stayed in Puerto Rico, then came back, and then left again. Yolanda never knew when he closed the door if it was for the last time.

Now that Louise saw where Yolanda actually lived, she felt even more compassion for the woman. To live in a dump like this, to have to hold your nose to get past the stench of urine and garbage in the hallway, to practically seal your door against invading armies of roaches, to have so few possessions and all of them faded, bare, mismatched, although clean and comfortable…Yolanda had evidently trained her children well, too. Louise noticed the neat piles of books and crayons on the table, which must serve as dining/cocktail/kitchen table. And desk. Good for her. Louise Sidway was determined to help Yolanda Santiago.

Louise remained where she was, examining the contents of the apartment, trying to figure out what had brought her here. This was a far cry from the great criminologist she had intended to be. When her friends were daydreaming about becoming models or actresses, Louise Sidway imagined herself a warden at a maximum security prison. Her innovative procedures and trusting rules would revolutionize the national penal system. She would be loved by the inmates, adored by the staff, revered by the whole country.

When she arrived in New York, full of her own importance and with her master’s degree in sociology, she had to take the civil service exam like everyone else. It was just her luck—that year the penitentiaries were full, not only of prisoners but of employees. And she felt overqualified to enroll in the Correctional Services Training Academy. So she accepted the next best thing offered to someone with her credentials. She planned to work only temporarily as a case worker for the Department of Family Assistance and Disability and Children and Family Services, which was how the Welfare Department had glamorized its name. But as she became more involved, Louise realized she’d probably never leave.

In the beginning, she wouldn’t admit that she enjoyed the power—the power of deciding who would get what. Who was entitled. The power of having people squirm before her, trying to please her so she’d sign the right papers. When she got into it with her therapist, she finally understood that it was more her need for power than her desire to reorganize the nation’s correctional facilities that had made her go in for criminology.

Louise came back quickly from her ego trip. With the steady stream of pathetic people she interviewed, her feeling of authority eventually wore off. She got no pleasure from being in command of poverty-stricken women trying to feed hungry babies or from controlling ambitious, willing men whose lack of education or language kept them unemployed. The thrill was gone. Instead, she got through her heavy caseload each day, trying not to care, trying not to get involved. She learned how to process the people like file numbers. She was good at objectivity, which was why she soon was promoted to a supervisor.

Every once in a while, somebody got to her. A lot of cases were referred to her. On the occasions when she immediately had an affinity for someone, it screwed up all her remoteness. Or she’d have an instant rapport with a person about whom she’d think,
There but for the grace of God go I
. Which is what happened with Yolanda Santiago. And Louise pulled in a few favors to get Yolanda in the back-to-work program of the Human Resources Administration without going to the end of the waiting list.

As Louise walked around Yolanda’s living room, lost in her own reflection, she absently patted the plastic cross hanging over the couch and thought,
So much for my dreams of running a prison.
What had happened to Yolanda Santiago’s dreams? Louise couldn’t make them come true, but she could at least help Yolanda to dream.