Connections (30 page)

Jessica paced back and forth in the police station while her husband sat on the edge of a wooden bench and cracked his knuckles. The desk sergeant hung up the phone. “Mr. Marcus? Ma’am?” As they approached the desk, Jessica fumbled for Lenny’s hand and squeezed it. “They’re bringing ’im right down,” the sergeant said kindly. “Detective’s gone to get him. He’ll be coming through that door there.” He pointed to the far end of the lobby-like hall.

“Is the dog still with him?” Jessica’s voice was shaky with fear. “They didn’t send her to the ASPCA, did they?”

“No, we’re not monsters. From the way I hear it, the little fella survived so well because of that dog. Anyways, he put up a big fight when they tried to take them in separate cars. No, they’re still together. But you’re going to have to have her examined and…well, the detective will explain everything to you.”

They nodded their thanks, walked back to the bench, and stared at the door. Where the paint wasn’t peeled, it was black with fingerprints. Lenny took his hand away, pulled his fingers for a few faint cracks of his knuckles, and then slipped it back in Jessica’s.

“Oh, God, I’m so nervous,” she whispered.

“Why? He’s all right.”

“Because. Because I’m afraid he hates us now, hates me. That’s why he did it. I don’t know how to act.”

“Don’t act, Jess, just be yourself. He loves you. It’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t yell at him,” she instructed. “Whatever you do, don’t yell.”

“Come on. What do you take me for? And I’ve never yelled at him in his life.”

“You don’t have to raise your voice to be yelling. It’s like my father always did to me. It’s the tone of disapproval. Sorry. I know you don’t yell. I just don’t want to scare him away.”

“I think he’s had enough,” Lenny said. “I don’t think he’s going to run away again.”

“I didn’t mean run away. I meant retreat. Inside himself. Go back to the way he was.”

“He’s not going to do that. He’s come a long way. He’s grown up fast—eleven years in the past one. He’s not going to go…backward now.”

“Len, I want him to continue therapy. Please don’t interfere with that. If you dislike Michelle so much, we’ll take him somewhere else. But it’s important for him. Promise you’ll let him continue, without fighting about it.”

“Jess, Jess, I don’t object to his going to Dr. Kravitz. Or anybody else. But stop trying to plan everything every second. Let him be just a little boy for a change. He’s entitled to—”

The door opened. The same electric impulse jumped through both their hands; the air hung suspended in their lungs. Clifford and Kola followed a burly man through the door and then stopped to look around. Jessica exhaled so quickly that a whistle rode her breath. Kola’s tail stiffened. Even matted with dirt, the white fur that hung from her tail created a feathery bow, arched in attention. The luxuriant plume swayed once, poised as she turned her head in their direction, her eyes fixing on theirs. Then it fanned wildly in recognition before she yowled her happy surprise. In three great leaps, she was dancing on her hind legs with Jessica.

Jessica tried to open her arms to Clifford, who just had started toward them, but Kola kept coming into them. She could not stop yelping and smothering Jessica with sloppy licks. Clifford watched as he came closer, stopped, and waited, trying to gauge his father’s response. Then Leonard Marcus was down on his knees, his hands pleading. Clifford dropped the canvas knapsack he was carrying and ran the last few steps into his father’s hug. A lump clogged Lenny’s throat. He swallowed hard, forcing it down. “Welcome home,” he whispered against Clifford’s ear. The small body fit comfortably against his chest and Lenny held him there tightly, bosom to bosom. “We were worried about you, son.” His words came out gravelly.

Then suddenly, they were exchanging partners in an orgy of kissing, hugging, howling, licking, and crying. The desk sergeant swiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Somethin’ bothering you?” the detective asked.

“Naw, why’d you ask?” They frowned at each other for a few seconds and then broke into broad smiles and gave each other a high-five.

The ends of the shoelaces were open, the white tongues sticking out of his high-tops. Although he was thin, his feet were an E-wide and gave him an athletic look. The thick rubber soles of his sneakers padded his footsteps as he walked around the office, making sure no one had come in yet. He peeked through the window at the waiting room, straining his neck to look as far as he could toward both corners, since
she
had a tendency to come in early. He tried, but he just couldn’t have gotten here any sooner, what with waiting for his mother to get out of the bathroom this morning and the delay on the A train. It had to be today, so they’d get it right after Labor Day. Otherwise, he’d only be working on Saturdays, and it would have to wait another whole week.

The coast was clear. He went to the four-drawer cabinet in the receptionist’s cubicle and crouched in front of the bottom drawer marked S-Z CURRENT. The ones above it had already been emptied out, the files transferred to the computer upstairs. He was excited about starting school on Tuesday; he was taking a computer class for one of his sciences. He knew he was going to be a whiz at it—he loved mechanical things. Maybe he would go to college for it. But first, he needed just a little more money to pay for his education.
And theirs
, he thought, snickering silently. Not that they’d learn their lesson.

How dare they—how fucking dare they—come in with their spoiled little pets and make such a fuss over them? Spend all that money on injections and pills and medicated baths, and X-rays, not to mention operations and pulling teeth and…jeez, imagine pulling a dog’s teeth, giving it anesthesia and all! He noticed the folder for “Sidway, Louise,” pulled it out, and read the medical history of her dog, Honda. Of course he would never do anything to her—especially since she was the one who got him the job in the first place. He was just curious. No, she was an okay lady. It was the rest of them. The middle-aged women fawning, pampering, cooing. Writing out checks. Whipping out credit cards. No matter how much it cost. Young girls with their kittens, talking to them through the holes in the carriers, apologizing to them for bringing them. God, it sucked! Didn’t they know there were poor people out there, little kids with no food? While they were buying gourmet cat foods and rhinestone leashes, there were babies practically dying of starvation. People who couldn’t even afford to go to a doctor. Yet here they were, bringing their animals to a hospital.

And what about decent people who just couldn’t get it together? They didn’t offer to help
them
, give them rent money or send their children to college. For their pets, they had it, not for other human beings. Look at his father, running out on them. He knew why—his father couldn’t cope. No matter how hard his father worked, it never got better, never got easier. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen to his mother or to the rest of his family. He already had enough to take care of them. It was just too bad he couldn’t use it yet. It was too soon. Only if there was an emergency.

Every day was an emergency for some of his friends. Trying to scrape together enough for the next meal. Life sure wasn’t fair. Not when these jerks could take care of dogs and cats, and there was nobody to take care of the people.

Ah, there it is
. He held the chart in one hand and copied down the address with his other. It was the least they could do. Give up some more money. It was for a much better cause than their pets. He admitted, though, that he got a great deal of pleasure from imagining their absolute terror, knowing their fear. They deserved to suffer.

His skin tingled when he thought about the old lady opening the envelope with the ear. Even as he cut it off the dead mutt in the plastic bin, waiting to be picked up by the crematorium, he thought he would’ve enjoyed it much more cutting it off a live dog, hearing it scream. No, he didn’t really want to hurt an animal; he wanted to hear its owner scream in horror.

It was a delightful 68 degrees and even though the forecast was for highs in the mid-80s, the early morning breeze smelled like autumn. The last day of August would be remembered for its clear skies and bright sun. But not for long. Tomorrow, the skies might be the same blue and the sun as hot, but they would belong to September and the promise of a spectacular season of crunchy leaves and bracing air and old cardigans.

Rosa opened her mouth and inhaled deeply, enjoying the freshness in her chest. There was nobody around. Few cars lined the curb but she still would not let Princess squat in an empty parking space. She remembered a dog back in 1976, whose owner had let her pee in the gutter. Someone in the car right behind her had turned on the ignition, and the loud noise had startled the dog, causing a heart attack. The dog collapsed and died in the puddle of urine. Right in front of her owner.

The old man Wally Schilder had hired to clean the street and carry the garbage out during Wally’s vacation was nowhere around, even though big black plastic bags leaned against each other in front of every brownstone. If she stood in a line straight and bent a little, they almost looked like mountains. Rosa checked her watch so she could write down the time when she went back upstairs to show Wally how many days the man was late. She did that every year.

She strolled to the corner, enjoying the emptiness of the block, but feeling a little like the only person left on earth after a bomb fell. Everybody was on their way somewhere for the weekend, but it was just like any other Saturday to her. Any other weekend. If she could go anywhere, where would she go? She shrugged. “I’d go back-a home,” she said out loud. “To Italy.” It was nice of Eileen Hargan to invite her on a trip. But they’d never do it. By the time both their dogs were dead and they were free to travel, they’d probably be too old or too sick. Besides, Eileen’s intentions might be good, but that woman would never part with her money.
Must be the Irish in her
, Rosa thought. It didn’t matter. It was nice to think about going somewhere.

She hoped the kids would have a nice time over the Labor Day weekend. Well, they were in their thirties, so they really weren’t kids anymore—except to her. They made a good-looking couple. Rosa pictured them as bride and groom, walking down the aisle in a fancy synagogue. Louise was Christian, but Rosa was sure she’d convert if she and Ken got married. “Do Jewish people walk down the aisle?” she asked Princess.

Not knowing, she pictured them walking down the aisle of a church, everybody nodding to the beautiful maid of honor in her long blue gown. Rosa twirled around in the street, pretending to show it off. Blue was her best color.

They said they’d call her on Tuesday to let her know how it went—if his parents liked her. Anyway, Ken also promised to tell her every single detail, give her a blow-by-blow description of the police investigation, and let her know if it was the guy in the vet’s office. The guy for whom Louise got the job. Rosa had seen him there last time she went to the vet. She didn’t like his looks, and she wouldn’t let him hold Princess on the table. The way he came in and out of the room, so quiet—there was something sneaky about him. She knew it then. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to catch him without her.

She picked Princess up and nuzzled her. “You tired already? Mama carry you. They going to need my help. Because it’s really me who figure it out, bambina. And me who knows all the stories. Me who find out about that Jason, and me who think to call him and ask if he still go to his old vet from when he live on the East Side. Sí, they need me to tell them everything.”

An old man came up the block, walking slowly. He went into the six-story building near the corner, and Rosa strolled in that direction, waiting for him. She knew who he was. A cranky old Kraut who lived on 80
^th
Street off York. He came out with a big broom and started sweeping the sidewalk.

“You late,” she announced. When he didn’t answer, she repeated it.

“Says who?” He glared at her, pointing the broom like a weapon.

“Says me.”

“And who’re you?”

“Me, I’m Rosa Bassetti, and I live on this street.”

“So? I don’t have to answer to you.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t have to talk to a crazy old lady talking to herself on the street.”

“I was not-a talking to myself. I was talking to my dog!” she shrieked at him, holding Princess’s head.

The man sneered, confirming that she was even crazier than he thought.

“Hey, you
capice
?” She put Princess down so she could use both her arms to give him the old Italian salute.

🙧

“Can you believe that little shit?” Louise complained to Honda. “After going out on a limb to get him the job, after helping his mother and his sister, the little prick does something like that?” Louise slammed the stainless steel bowl on the floor with such venom that part of the wet food jumped over the top and onto the floor. Honda’s ears went back and his tail dropped between his back legs. He sat in front of his dinner, his head slightly cocked to ask what he had done wrong.

“And I had such hopes for him too. For after graduation, for his future. He certainly fucked up his life. And mine too.” Louise held onto the rim of the kitchen sink, slightly bent to gulp some deep breaths. “It’s okay; you’re a good boy. I’m not mad at you.” She crouched on the floor, and Honda slithered toward her, still acting guilty. “It’s okay, big guy. I’m sorry I scared you.” She opened her arms, and Honda rubbed his head against her chest with a little whimper. “You silly boy, you didn’t do anything wrong. Mama did. Trusting that asshole.” What a jerk he was. He probably didn’t even know that the New York State criminal justice system considered sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds as adults.

Calmer now, cooing apologies to Honda, she knew no matter how pissed off she was at Rick, she would never let Yolanda down. She’d stand by her when they arraigned him, help her bail him out, and maybe try to sway the court to give him another chance.

And she would not let this ruin her weekend. Let
his
be ruined, thinking about spending a few nights in a jail cell.

🙧

Laurie left to get the newspaper and a bagel for her breakfast. It was too pleasant out to sit in her cramped, windowless kitchen, so without making the conscious decision to do so, she kept on walking. There weren’t many people around—they all had somewhere to go—and when she came to a tiny coffee shop that looked empty, she was sure it was closed for the holiday weekend. But she peered in the window anyway and saw lights on and silhouetted movements in the back. She went in and took a booth, tentatively waiting to be told to move. The unwritten law that only three or more can sit at a table for four is so ingrained in New Yorkers that Laurie, even though she had checked first to make sure there were plenty of other tables, felt guilty. As she watched the waitress coming toward her with a coffeepot, she gratefully pushed her cup over. After she ordered the number three—two eggs and bacon, home fries, and toast—she spread the
News
open and sat back comfortably, relishing the forbidden space.

She ate her breakfast, read most of the paper, except for the sports section, and had two refills of coffee, which were not responsible for her feeling so stimulated. The first day of September carried an expectancy in its breeze, a joyful eagerness to meet the coming season. Laurie Jensen’s spirit was invigorated. She suddenly felt an urge deep in her being to not only accept her future but to steer its course. A small stretch of her arms as she leaned against the vinyl back of the seat seemed to loosen her body. But it was her soul, yawning widely to engulf life itself, that energized her. She was now up to 2,347 “likes” on her Posts and encouraging outrage on her Wall, and she knew something positive was going to come of it all.

Embarrassed to dawdle any longer, she nodded her head to the waitress and pointed to her cup. “Last one, thanks,” she said as the young girl, probably with the least seniority to get stuck working this Saturday, poured more coffee from the glass pot.

Laurie turned the pages backward to find the one with the horoscope column. There it was: “Your new beginnings start with healing old wounds. Contact a long-lost friend or relative today.” A mild sadness crept into her excitement and by the time she had left a dollar tip, rolled up the newspaper, and brought the check to the register behind the takeout sign at the counter, her mood had changed.

Outside, her forehead gathered into pleats from the brightness of the sun…and from salt stinging her eyes. Maybe she’d go home and call her mother. Talk to her; tell her she was coming for a visit. Whether her father liked it or not. It was too late to go this weekend; no, it didn’t pay, not with the airfares what they were. But if she spoke to her mother now, she could make a reservation for Thanksgiving. That was so far away; maybe Columbus Day. Why not? If she went in to the office later today and again on Monday and next weekend, she’d have everything finished by October 12
^th
. So Dr. Pomalee wouldn’t mind if she took more time off, maybe a whole week.
If
her mother wanted her to come home. Of course she would. Mothers were like that.

Laurie hurried along Woodhaven Boulevard, intent on thoughts of what she’d say to her mother after all this time.

The traffic light blinked an amber warning, but she stepped off the curb anyway. A horn startled her, and the driver screamed out the window, “Where the hell you going, lady? Dincha see the light?”

Where the hell was she going? She snapped back to her surroundings and rushed to the safety of the opposite sidewalk. She looked around, once again aware of the glorious day. She inhaled deeply. Of course! She’d write the dialogue with her mother on the computer and then rehearse her part before she called. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She headed home, a girlish skip in her walk.

🙧

Kola lay coiled around herself on the bed, her nose snuggled to her rear, her tail a canopy over her. An occasional current of air from the open window stirred the hairs in its path. Suddenly, her ear twitched, and her body heaved with a strangled yelp and then jerked awkwardly. Clifford left the desk where he was examining his new pencil box and notebook, preparing for Tuesday. He brought a large brush with him and sat on the bed, gently stroking her forehead with his hand. Without opening her eyes, she uncurled herself and burrowed backward into his thigh. Clifford dug the metal bristles into her and with long, steady strokes, he massaged her skin, soothed her nerves, and obliterated her past.

He watched her face, the nostrils of the shiny black nose pulsing. “It’ll be okay, girl. I’ll only be gone part of the day. I’m gonna come home every day. And if I have to be late, Mom promised to keep you company. She’s gonna be studying anyway. You’ll never be alone ’slong as I’m here. We gotta stick together, forever.” He stretched out, facing her, and rested his head in her neck. His blond hair and her white fur wove together. He put his arm around her side and let his lids, heavy with tiredness, close. Her unconscious groan of pleasure was more a cat’s purr. In her sleep, Kola Marcus, née Kid-Beauty-Damn Mutt-Rowan, lifted a heavy paw and held it to Clifford’s shoulder.

🙧

The hair on men’s legs didn’t seem to have any relation to the hair on their heads. There was the long and straight kind that completely covered the flesh in a soft down; the curly, kinky kind that looked like fuzzy coils; and then there was an in-between kind like Ken’s, Louise thought, rich and thick and smooth, with spots of tan showing through, more heavily in the thighs where the growth wasn’t so generous. She watched Ken, bent over the car trunk, rearranging a beach chair and toolbox and some small cartons to accommodate their bags. In his khaki shorts and sandals, his legs were long and sinewy and as he hefted a snow tire out of the way, the muscle in the back of his shin moved, slithering under his skin.

Somebody ought to do a study, Louise decided, comparing chest and leg hair with head hair. Research on why guys with straight, thinning hair always seem to have excessive, gorilla-type body hair. And why guys like Ken Hollis, whose hair was so thick and curly, like she wished hers was, had the opposite kind on his legs and almost none at all in the cleft between his nipples. From the way he was stooped away from her, Louise noticed that the white disk of baldness in the center of the whorls at the back of his skull had grown larger. Not that she minded. She liked it. As much as she liked the gray highlights in the blond, which gave him that ashy aura of maturity she found so attractive.

“Christ, what do you have in here?” He pushed her bag in next to the chair.

“Just a bathing suit for when it warms up and a pair of nice pants for tonight.”

“I know for sure it can’t be a bikini. It weighs a ton.” He patted everything down and slammed the trunk.

“Well, I had to bring my hair dryer, and my curling iron, and another pair of shoes.”

“My mother will take one look and think you’re staying for a month!”

“I just might.”

Ken walked around and opened the passenger door for her, gesturing chivalrously for her to get in. “It’s no threat. She’d be delighted.”

“Sure! Just wait ’til she finds out her son is bringing home a schicker.”

“Shiksa, shiksa,” he corrected her. “How many times do I have to tell you? A schicker is a drunk. A shiksa is a Gentile.” Ken smoothed the hem of her skirt inside, then closed the door. He walked around to his side and got in the car, smiling affectionately at her.

“Well then, I have the perfect name for Louise Sidway,” she said seriously.

“Buckle up.” Ken Hollis clicked his seat belt. “What?”

Louise pulled her belt across her shoulders, down to the hasp at her waist. “Know what they ought to call a non-Jewish female who is drunk with love? A schicker-shiksa. Or on days you want a little variety, a shiksa-schicker.”

As he turned the key and the motor sputtered, Ken Hollis’s roar of laughter was lost in the roar of the engine. He pulled away. A few blocks further, he waited in the access lane, the smile still broadening his face. Looking out the right window for a hole in the steady line of oncoming vehicles, his eyes couldn’t help but fall on the girl sitting beside him. The one who made him laugh. And sometimes cry. He wanted her to be there when he was driving, when he was waking, or working, or relaxing, or eating, or thinking, or sleeping. Especially when he was sleeping, when he could reach out to touch a dream. He wanted her to be there always. Somehow, he knew she would be.