Connections (29 page)

Laurie couldn’t sleep. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow, dislodging Felix, who wheezed his anger at her and then pompously strutted out of the bedroom, like a tap dancer strutting off stage. She turned onto her back, clutching the pillow over her. But she couldn’t block out the frenzy of eyes spinning in her brain, circling, darting. Pleading for help. Calling Laurie Jensen to rescue them.

Eyes of dogs hanging upside down by their paws in Philippine meat markets; eyes of chimpanzees visible between electrodes dangling from their heads; eyes of mother seals watching their babies skinned alive, tears melting into their fur; eyes of rabbits taped open and coated with detergent; eyes of wolves chewing their legs off in traps; eyes of dolphins still strangling as steel nets sliced their necks. Eyes of animals being gassed, trapped, burned, electrocuted.

Her own eyes could not shut them out. They haunted her—with the agony of their torture, with the gruesome slowness of their dying, with their aloneness and pain. She could see nothing else except millions of eyes and their grisly suffering. They blinded her.

Her belly churned bile to her throat. She gagged on its sourness and ran to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet.

She slapped cold water on her cheeks and then braced herself on the edge of the sink. Her arms wobbled.

She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of red wine, which she brought into the living room with her. She sat on the couch, waiting for her body to stop shaking, and then sipped her drink in the dark. A set of iridescent amber disks beamed on both sides of the room, an occasional flicker reminding her that she was being watched. “Over here, guys, c’mere.” She patted the couch, but they didn’t come. No matter how enchanting they could be, they still weren’t dogs. “You’re wondering what I’m doing, huh? Well, so am I. What am I doing here?” she asked out loud. “What am I doing with my life?”

Laurie rubbed the light condensation on her glass and wondered if she was becoming an alcoholic. It seemed that she was doing this a lot lately—coming home, tired, depressed, and having one or two drinks to relax her. It was only wine, but she read somewhere that it was just as bad as liquor. It’s not like she had to have it. Except, even when she promised herself on the subway or walking to her apartment that she would not have a drink tonight, she came in and had one anyway. More like three. Sometimes she just wanted to have one to help her calm down. Like now. A few minutes ago, she was ready to puke her guts out, and now she felt fine.

“Hey, wanna cuddle?” A current of air announced a cat streaking by. “Even you don’t want me anymore. Thanks, loads.” Laurie’s voice was slightly slurred.
Maybe nobody wants me
, she thought,
because I’m not very worth wanting
. She had to do something because she couldn’t go on like this. She was almost finished with her project, but then what? Anyway, what good would it do anyone—especially the animals—when it was done? Maybe the whole thing was for nothing. It’s not like she had something better to do. But she should. That was her problem. Wasting her time on a cause that she couldn’t help, wasting her life on a man she couldn’t have.

Laurie refilled her glass, curled her legs under her, and tried to drown her despair. The wine was warm and thick as syrup as it slid down her throat. For a moment, she dreamed of her mother’s embrace, and she sniveled loudly.

She swiped her finger across her nose as Felix jumped into her lap, followed by Oscar, who gently touched her face with a paw before curling up against her leg. They both lifted their heads and glared as Megabyte tentatively climbed onto the couch and got comfortable in the corner. Then they circled their faces into their butts in secure mode, which Laurie called sleeping inside out. Three cats on the couch. An omen, for sure.

Fibber McGee lifted his leg against the giant concrete banister and dribbled on the bottom step.

“Aw, Miss Hargan, look what he done.” Wally Schilder’s loud whine came from two doors away, where he was hosing the sidewalk.

Eileen looked down and saw the urine spots darkening the stone. She tugged the leash, scolding her dog with a “naughty, naughty,” which Wally knew was half-hearted for his sake. So did Fibber. “Sorry,” she called back to him. “Do it quick so it won’t stain.” She watched him drag the hose and stepped back to the curb so she wouldn’t get sprinkled.

“’T’s okay. Whatcha doin’ out here so early?”

“I haven’t been sleeping. So I thought I’d catch Miss Bassetti; she goes out early.” Eileen would never have referred to her as Rosa to someone like Wally Schilder. A worker. Just like she never referred to another teacher by her first name to a student or even a parent. It wouldn’t be proper. “And how are you, Wally? When are you leaving for vacation?”

“I’m fine. You know me, Ms. Hargan. Comes Labor Day, I take off for my month. This is my last day.”

“I didn’t realize. Where are you going this year?”

“Europe. Promised the wife I’d take her to Germany. She still has people there. Some first cousins, an uncle. So, as long as we’re there, we’re doing the grand tour. London, Paris, Rome. Then the Rhineland.”

“That’s wonderful, Wally. When do you leave?”

“Today at four o’clock. Soon as my day’s over. Going to spend the weekend with the grandchildren in New Jersey first. Then Monday, we’ll get ready and leave on Tuesday. Didn’t want to travel on Labor Day anyway.”

“Well, good for you. I hope you have a good time.”

“Thanks, Ms. Hargan. I’m sure we will.” As he turned to talk to her, the hand holding the hose followed, and Eileen did a two-step out of its reach. “G’won, I’m not going to get you.” Wally released his thumb, controlling the water, and went back to where he’d been working. “You take care.”

“Thank you. You too. And have a good time.”
Think of that,
Eileen said to herself.
A part-time superintendent is off to Europe, and I’ve never been
. She laughed at her own silliness. “How do you like that, Mr. McGee?” The dog cocked his head in her direction, but she didn’t elaborate. It’s not like she couldn’t afford to go. If she wanted. She just never wanted. She preferred knowing the money was safe in the bank, rather than using it for something as frivolous as a trip. But more and more lately, it had seemed increasingly frivolous
not
to spend it. Look how easy she’d withdrawn the 10,000 dollars.

Only that was different. That was almost a necessity. But as her friend said, “If you can find it for something like that, you can find it for pleasure.”

It wasn’t too late. She wouldn’t go to Europe—not that far—but maybe someplace closer. The Caribbean. Florida. Maybe she’d even invite Rosa to go with her. If she had a companion, it would be easier. Not that she hadn’t had her choice of companions before, but maybe there just hadn’t been anybody with whom she would consider spending several weeks traveling. It seemed like a shame that Eileen would die without having been farther than Los Angeles—and that had been in 1972. Why should Danny and his wife inherit the money? Charlene was really nothing to her and would probably get a three-week, expenses-paid trip to the other side of the world when Eileen died.
The hell she will!
Eileen thought. She pulled Fibber McGee closer to her. “Over my dead body,” she said out loud to him.

“Over you dead body what?”

Even though she knew it wasn’t Fibber McGee answering her, the timing was so startling that she jumped. “Rosa, you scared me.”

“I see. You gotta be paying attention more. I tol’ you. Anybody could come behind you and grab the leash.” Rosa demonstrated by pulling it away from Eileen. Then she bent over to say a personal greeting to Fibber McGee. “Now, what you tellin’ him?”

“Well, get this, Rosa Bassetti. I was thinking of taking a real vacation. And taking you with me.”

“G’won.”

“Yes. What would you say to going to Paris? Or London? Or both?” It came out before she had a chance to think. What had happened to the Caribbean or Florida?

“I’da say…ho-ly shit.”

“Rosa!”

“But I say in Italian so you wouldn’ta be upset.”

Eileen laughed. “Of course, we can’t go until”—she moved her gaze downward to Fibber and Princess, prancing around each other—“until they’re gone.” Her pointed look at Rosa warned her not to repeat the words out loud, not to scare the two dogs.

“Of course. And I hope they both be around for a long, long time. But how wonderful to look forward. You really wanna take me?”

“Better you than that Charlene.” As soon as Eileen said it, she knew she would do it. If she lived that long. And she damn well intended to.

🙧

Not that she’d run out of horrors in this country, but Laurie was so overwhelmed by the animal cruelty she came across that she had to start a new page for international obscenities.

Two million dogs a year killed in the South Korean meat market. Hung, live, upside down by their rear legs where housewives and chefs could examine what kind of meal they’d make.

Canned hunts in Africa where lions that were raised in captivity, in parks, interacting with people, got too big and were sold to a different business, where so-called hunters paid to shoot them dead. Targets confined to a small enclosure.

In the last two years, more than 70,000 elephants—majestic animals with strong emotions and family bonds—have been slaughtered. Their tusks savagely cut out of their flesh, leaving them to bleed to death in excruciating pain.

Next, she would report on the farming industry and the eight billion animals raised in factory-like environments and subjected to torturous lives.

As she typed, her stomach twisted, and she started to gag on the vomit threatening to churn up her guts.

Yolanda tapped the hard-boiled egg on the table and peeled the shell back as she half listened to Señora Sanchez’s commentary on their neighborhood, her children in Colombia, her children in New York, the state of the city, and the plight of poor people everywhere. Without a pause in her monologue, Señora got up from the kitchen chair, opened the refrigerator, took out the jar of mayonnaise, and placed it next to Yolanda. “You making too much,” she told Yolanda in Spanish.

“Not the way those kids eat. And it’s more fun when they’re out…gives them a bigger appetite. This is going to be a real picnic. They have the tables and benches all set up. I wish you’d come with us.”

Señora Sanchez waved her hand. “I’m too old for that.”

“Nobody’s too old. The bus is comfortable, air conditioned, and we’ll leave you somewhere in the shade while we go off exploring. Please. The children would love it.”

“Nah. I’ll just stay home, like I do every holiday, and wait for someone to visit me. You’d think one of my daughters or my granddaughters could find time to stop by and just say hello.” She switched to English. “How you doin’?”

“You’ll just be disappointed, like always,” Yolanda responded, ignoring the question. “That’s why you should come with us. So you won’t be alone.”

“It’s not the kind of holiday that you can’t be alone. Not like Easter or Christmas. It’s okay. Ricardo going?”

“Are you kidding? You know he wouldn’t do a family thing, like go to Bear Mountain with us. What would his friends say? Anyway, I think he has to work.”

“On Labor Day?”

“Labor Day isn’t ’til Monday. It’s just a regular Saturday for him.”

“You think he’s going to stay there when school starts?”

Yolanda cut the eggs into a big soup bowl, chopped some onions, and added salt and pepper and the mayo. She mixed the ingredients hard with a wooden spoon. “I hope so, I hope so. They asked him to. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he stayed ’til he was finished with school and then went on to college? And then—who knows? He might go to medical school or whatever you have to do to become a vet himself: Dr. Ricardo Santiago Jr. Sometimes I dream about it, Señora, walking down the aisle for my son’s graduation from college. Oh, if my mother, poor soul, could have lived to see it—he was her favorite, you know.”

“He’s everybody’s favorite.
El joven es encantador
. A charmer. If I had a young daughter around his age, I’d lock her up. Soon as his face clears up, he’s going to be a real lady-killer, that one.”

“Don’t tell him that. His head is big enough as it is. Yes, he knows how to be charming, but the real reason he’s so appealing is that he’s…I don’t know…caring.
Sensitive
. That’s it, sensitive.”

“Could this be the mother speaking? Of course she has no prejudice about her son.” Señora Sanchez laughed and reached over to run her finger along the rim of the bowl to scoop a taste of egg salad. “The bread will get soggy.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to make the sandwiches ’til the morning, just before we leave. Tell me—good?”

“Of course it’s good. Needs a little more salt, though.”

“I was talking about Ricky,” Yolanda said, sprinkling more salt into the bowl. “He’s a good boy, isn’t he?”

“Of course he’s a good boy. You worry too much. About all of them. They’re good children. You did a good job bringing them up.”

“Well, I had lots of help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Señora Sanchez beamed. “It was good to have a tough old bird around, hah? Someone with the exact right mixture of discipline and love.”

“Now look who’s not at all prejudiced.”

Wordlessly, the señora stood up and held the plastic container steady on the table, while Yolanda tilted the bowl over it. “So then,” Yolanda asked, shoveling the egg salad into it with the wooden spoon, “how come I always worry?”

“How come? Because you are a mother; that’s how come.”

Jason Ruderman looked around the living room, his eyes examining everything to make sure it was all right. As if whatever was wrong would be noticeable now and not after they came back. The windows were all closed, the lights all turned off, except for the lamp in the bedroom, which faced the street.

Chris walked into the foyer and pointed to the carrier, open on the floor, airing out. “I’ll take that.”

Jason nodded and called out, “Now, don’t start hiding, Sabrina. We’re going on a fun trip. You don’t even have to get in your carrier yet.” He went into the kitchen and came back with a small rawhide bone and a rubber hamburger, which he put into the carrier. “And if you’re real good and quiet, we may be able to let you sit on Daddy’s lap on the choo-choo.”

“Don’t count on it,” Chris told him. “The train will probably be mobbed; somebody’s bound to complain.”

“It’ll be just our luck that somebody like Nettie Pedersen will go all the way to Amagansett on the same train.”

“No, that would be the good news. The bad news would be if Nettie Pedersen herself was on the train. ‘Oh, Conductor. Conductor.’” Chris pursed his lips in a prudish pout. “‘There is a loose ani-mule in this car, and I must insist that it be crated immediately.’”

Jason laughed, and Sabrina cocked her head at the shrill imitation.

“‘And furthermore, Conductor,’” Chris continued, “‘the two gentlemen escorting her are not gentlemen at all. They are of a homosexual persuasion, and I must request that they not be permitted to sit together. In fact, they should be crated too. They should not be allowed to ride next to decent people.’”

“‘Well, miss,’” Jason said, taking the conductor’s part and deepening his voice as low as he could while making a stern face, “‘I quite agree. The Long Island Rail Road rules and regulations do not permit any lewd or lascivious behavior, so…I demand that you stop drooling over my sexy body at once. Or I shall force you’”—Jason opened his fly, pulled out his penis, and shook it back and forth at the imaginary Ms. Pedersen—“‘to take this and this and this.’”

When they finished roaring with laughter, Christopher followed Jason into the kitchen, and watched him push each knob on the stove to make sure the jets were closed all the way.

“Let me just double-check the bathroom,” Jason said.

“I already did.”

“Doesn’t hurt to look again. Did you look in the tub too?”

“Jason, for Chrissake, we never ever leave water dripping. Why would we now, just when we’re going away?”

“Who knows why? Because I’m a nut.” Jason’s voice faded as he went to check. Moments later, he came back, picked up Sabrina’s leash, and then stood for a moment, looking to Chris like a little boy about to go away to camp for the first time.

“You okay?” Chris asked.

Jason continued to stare at Christopher Barrett—his friend, his lover, his life companion. His eyes softened with his love. And deep within him, he felt serene in the knowledge that his mother and father would understand that and even be glad for him. That his whole family would embrace him and Chris. Jason hugged Chris close and patted his back emotionally before pulling away. As Jason hooked the leash onto the dog’s collar, he hid a tear on his cheek. Then, silently, they took their bags and the carrier, locked the door, and walked down the hall toward the elevator, with Sabrina waddling between them.
Yes,
Jason thought,
I feel serene. And giddy
.