Connections (6 page)

Fibber McGee was too old to jump up, but he whined and pawed Eileen’s knee until she picked him up and sat him in her lap. Even though she held him tightly, his whole body vibrated. The pounding of his heart, loud and fast, pulsated through his bones, the echo thudding against Eileen’s palm.

She leaned closer to him, squeezing, and whispered behind his ear, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let him hurt you. It’s okay, darling.” She swayed slightly on the pew-like seat, chanting “Sh-sh-sh” like “Ah-ah-baby.” She wasn’t at all self-conscious of her conversation because no embarrassment would prevent her from soothing her love. Besides, she wasn’t the only one. There was a whole cult sitting here, acknowledging one another’s presence with nods, commiserating with smiles at the next one trying to calm her animal. It could have been a London park, with nannies sitting on benches, rocking their carriage handles up and down. Instead of a veterinarian’s waiting room.

“Look over there, Mr. McGee. There, there, calm down. Can you believe that woman talking into a carrier, to a cat? Anybody who would talk to a cat is crazy, don’t you think? That’s a good boy; take it easy.” She kissed the top of his head and tried to intimidate the cat woman by staring at her. Then she giggled softly. “What would people think about my explaining to my dog about the nutty woman talking to her cat? Eh, Fibber, don’t you think that’s funny? Well, it won’t be long now, and then we’ll go home and have a nice nap.”

It was incredible how they knew. But they all did. As soon as Eileen started walking toward 74
^th
and York, Fibber pulled back and tried to turn around. No matter how she varied the route—one block over, one block down, two over, three down—he could tell. Other times, when she walked in that direction, he was perfectly content to trot along with her, safe and happy. How he could tell that on this particular day, on this particular walk, they were on their way to the vet’s, she didn’t know. Even the first time, before animals had a chance to get poked or jabbed or prodded, they were all scared. It seemed to Eileen, from all her waiting-room observations, that the bigger the dogs, the more petrified they acted. There was a Doberman mix in the neighborhood who bullied every other dog he met on the street. She had seen him in Dr. Pomalee’s waiting room once, hiding under the bench, whimpering like a sissy.

Eileen was always apprehensive coming here, anticipating being told the end was near (as if Fibber would change from his playful, still frisky self to advanced senility overnight) or that he had some dread disease. Eileen had nightmares about that. She knew she would be able to cope with her own illness a lot better than with his. In her case, she’d be able to understand; she’d be able to treat whatever it was or at least hope. If it were Fibber, the only solution might be to put him to sleep. She couldn’t even think about that; she could only pray that if the time came, God would give her enough strength to do what was best for him. Her main concern was with who would take care of Fibber if she became incapacitated. Danny was a good, sweet, devoted nephew, but he would never love Fibber the way he needed to be loved. The way he was used to being loved. Danny’s idea of a dog was a four-legged thing you had to feed and walk and occasionally pet, in exchange for an automatic household alarm system.

She was glad the receptionist interrupted her rambling worries by calling her turn. Fibber was practically comatose, once she got him up on the table. A young attendant had to help her lift him, because he was trying so desperately to get out of the room.

Dr. Pomalee was abrupt. The only reason Eileen went to him was that he was kind to the patients themselves, and he was within walking distance. “Still giving him the aminophylline?” he asked from under Fibber’s tail.

Eileen winced out loud as he squeezed the anal glands to check them. It evidently didn’t hurt the dog as much as it hurt her, because he gave only a half-hearted yelp compared to her loud gasp.

“Yes, Doctor.” She covered the dog with her body to hold him down, while the doctor walked around to the head of the table. “Do you think there’s any change?”

“Let’s see.” He picked up the folder with her name on it. And Fibber’s. Fibber McGee Hargan. Like a school record. Or report card. “We did a cardiogram last October. There’s no way to tell without doing another one, but I don’t think it’s necessary right now. I think we’ll wait ’til it’s a year.”

Eileen wondered if she should insist. Even though it was expensive, you couldn’t take a chance when it came to health. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to Fibber because she didn’t give him the test. That’s why she came for checkups regularly, every six months. Her doctor would be pleased if she treated her own body so conscientiously.

“Sounds good. Very good.” He pulled the stethoscope out of his ears and playfully caressed Fibber’s ear. “For an old man, you’re okay.” While he studied the chart, Fibber’s paws slid back and forth on the steel table, trying to get off. “It’s okay; let him down. I’d say he’s in very good health for eleven. But I want you to keep him on the pills. They help his breathing and take the strain off the heart.” He made some notations while Eileen sighed with relief.

“Oh, if it’s all the same to you,” she said, “could you give me a prescription? I go to this discount—”

“Sure.”

There was no point in paying top price for the pills just because he had them right here when she could get a senior-citizen discount from the drugstore. Eileen Hargan felt absolutely justified in sending the receipt to her supplemental insurance company with her others. It would be different if she sent Dr. Pomalee’s bill to Medicare. That would really be cheating. Besides, she was afraid she would lose all her benefits if they ever found out.

Laurie Jensen passed the bill to Eileen Hargan. Then she typed something into the computer, put the printout in the folder, and stacked it on Stacy’s desk to be re-filed. She pointed to the sign over the desk to remind Ms. Hargan that it was called Manhattan Veterinary Associates, Inc. Some of the older patients still wrote “Hospital” and then either had to void their checks or correct them. “You know, we take MasterCard and VISA if you want to charge the visit.”

“No, no. I don’t like running up bills. Is there anything you can’t charge these days?”

Laurie waited patiently while the woman entered the check on her stub. Actually, this was a nice break in her day; the girl who usually relieved Stacy was out sick, so she was filling in. She didn’t often get to come downstairs and talk to the patients. She remembered Ms. Hargan from the first week she started working here. Laurie had changed in the past ten years; the business had changed. But Ms. Hargan looked exactly the same. Pert and petite, her snow-white hair was crisp and bouncy, except for the scalp shining through on top. Even her dog looked the same, although he had been only a puppy back then.

“It’s gone up, hasn’t it?” Ms. Hargan asked.

“No, I think it was sixty-five dollars the last time you were here too.” Laurie leaned over to check the screen to make sure she was right. “And don’t forget we have to add the heartworm pills. Enough for the season.”

It was hard for some of the elderly patients to pay. Laurie felt guilty for not mentioning that if it was really a hardship, they would accept less. If she
did
tell Ms. Hargan, though, it might embarrass the old woman. God, she was wearing a dress that had to be thirty years old. Although she was trim and neat and her clothes fit her body perfectly, Laurie thought she probably hadn’t bought anything new in decades.

It wasn’t a standard procedure, but they did it for some of the long-time patients, and Eileen Hargan had been with them for a long time. Dr. Pomalee hadn’t been in practice very long then.
He’s changed too
, Laurie thought. He seemed to have shrunk a little from the six-foot-four height that had awed her in the beginning. His hairline had definitely receded. But two wives later, he was still as handsome as ever.

When Laurie first met him, he had just bought the brownstone, lived above the office, and rented out the top two floors. He was delighted to learn she had just gotten her certification after finishing her two-year veterinary technician course at La Guardia and was waiting for her state license. He hired her on the spot. She assisted him in surgery, gave the medicated baths, answered the phone, administered injections, kept the appointment book, ordered the supplies, fed the boarders, and balanced the books. And in her spare time, she cleaned out the cages. She had come a long way, baby. She and Dr. Pomalee both had.

He recently had taken in two associates and had an architect redesign the building. He moved his living quarters up to the fourth floor. The basement was converted to “guest rooms” for boarding. The first floor had the waiting room and six examination rooms—three for Dr. Pomalee and his other doctors; three for “holding” the next patient. Sometimes it was like musical rooms. The second floor contained operating and X-ray rooms. The third was clerical and storage. The staff had increased to thirteen, with attendants and techs. Laurie Jensen was now a vice president of the corporation, and she ran the office.

It had become a very large business, as had the whole industry; theirs was only one of the about twenty-two thousand veterinary hospitals in the United States. Laurie Jensen knew this and many more statistics. She had been accumulating them for years.

The odors from the open back door of a Hungarian restaurant, mingling with the scent of newspaper ink, the sour stench coming from a dark doorway, and just-baked bagels, were as sweet to Jason as the honeysuckle-jasmine scent floating through a romantic novel.

As the papers were thrown from the truck onto the sidewalk, he moved closer, with all the other people who had been loitering on the corner, waiting for the Sunday
Times
. Three teenage boys quickly wrapped the main section around the bulk of the paper, which they had been collating all afternoon. Jason called it the “Saturday night outdoor factory,” which had an assembly line on many street corners in Manhattan. Not as many as there used to be, with so many people getting digital editions of the
Times
. Jason thought there was something very unsatisfying about swiping the pages on an iPad or turning them with a mouse on a laptop, as well as having a subscription and getting the Book Review and the Arts & Leisure section a day early. Of course, nothing changed from Saturday morning to Sunday morning in literature or on Broadway, but it was always a pleasant surprise to open the sections and relish the contents on the day they were meant to be read.

He gave the head guy a ten, watched him put the
News
inside the
Times
, and then hold out his arm for the wad of papers and his change. He started down Amsterdam Avenue, pulling Sabrina closer to him. No, there was nothing as relaxing as spreading the sections out on the table Sunday morning and reading them one at a time with a second mug of coffee.

The traffic never eased in New York, and Jason wondered how he could be expected to curb his dog when the cars and busses squeezed their tires so closely against the pavement. A giggle came to his throat, like a little burp, as a perverse thought crossed his mind. One curbed dog to go. Squash! The leash tugged back, and he stopped and watched Sabrina squat on the sidewalk. While she was urinating, Sabrina looked up at him guiltily. He had not given her enough lead to go into the street. He very softly said, “Good girl,” knowing that she would hear his whispered approval and be grateful for it. She knew every inflection of his voice, every gesture of his body, every mood of his soul. For she loved him. If only Chris had one-tenth the sensitivity or cared or expressed one-tenth of the feeling that Sabrina did! There must really be something wrong with him. Even when things were going well, Jason was not satisfied. He should go for help. It wasn’t normal. Chris was right about one thing, though…Jason made himself miserable. Why couldn’t he just take things for what they were? Be satisfied, even glad to have as much as he did? And accept Chris as he was—for what he was.

He looked dully at the throngs of people strolling along, enjoying the perfect spring night, and he was angry at himself that he couldn’t find pleasure in it too. That he couldn’t enjoy closing up his shop after a busy day. Couldn’t go home and eat his dinner alone, or take a walk for the papers, or put his feet up and watch television, without thinking about Chris all the time. But the other people walking hand in hand or arm in arm just made him feel lonelier.

He could understand that Chris didn’t care if people wondered what he was, or commented, or speculated. Or even if they thought they knew. He could even understand that he didn’t want to show up at a business or literary function with Jason and make them actually sure. Not the people he worked for or with. Not his precious writers. But Jason could not understand why Chris would go any place that they couldn’t be together, especially on a weekend. Jason would never do that. He wouldn’t have gone, because he would rather stay home and do nothing with Chris than go to the finest, most exciting affair without him. If Chris would rather do something else, be with other people, then he couldn’t possibly love Jason enough or as much as ...
As much as what?
Jason asked himself.
As much as I want him to
.

That Chris had a whole other life that he couldn’t or wouldn’t share with him was what made Jason feel so rejected and alone. Even though Jason kept wishing and hoping, deep down he knew that Chris would never be what he wanted. Which is why he was always disappointed. Why he always had that sense of loss…for what was not.

A blaring radio from a car slowing at the traffic light jolted Jason out of his preoccupation. He shifted the weight of the papers to his other arm, switched the leash, and hurried around the corner, away from the crowds and lights and smells.

The letter came on Tuesday. The thick Macy’s sale catalog was rolled up tight, wedging the envelopes inside the mailbox. Eileen scraped her hand trying to get everything out. She sucked the blood from her index finger and had to juggle the handles of the plastic grocery bag and her pocketbook and the mail before starting up to the second floor.

“Hello-o-o, Mama’s little boy,” she sang out, trying to get the key in the lock. She could hear Fibber moaning with excitement, his snout at the crack of the door, not quite whining, not quite yelping, not quite able to bear the few seconds between hearing her footsteps and being in her arms.

Once inside, she dropped everything on the floor and stooped so Mr. McGee could stand on his hind legs and hold her shoulders with his front paws—the way he used to play or fight with other dogs when he was younger and friskier. She rubbed her face against his and massaged the little indentation under his ear.

When he calmed down, she brought her things into the small, neat kitchen. Once the groceries were put away, she looked through the mail, taking everything out of the envelopes and sorting the contents into two piles—her Con Edison and Verizon telephone bills and an interest check in one; junk (including one corporate annual report and two letters to stockholders), two catalogs, and the Macy’s flyer in the other. She left the important things on her desk to attend to, the rest on top of the TV for later.

It wasn’t until 5:30 that she saw it. She had taken a short nap, cuddled tight with Mr. McGee. She woke up, washed her face, paid the two bills, got the chicken ready, and went for her afternoon walk with Fibber. When she returned, she changed into her slippers and brunch coat, put the chicken in the oven, and sat down in her club chair. She didn’t know if the sigh came from the worn spring in the seat or from the worn bones inside her. It was too early to watch the six o’clock news, so she started reading the junk. She read every word of the solicitations, the political statements, the ads. Then she reached for the white-sale booklet. The letter was about a third of the way through the booklet, between ads for mattress pads and pillows. Sometimes the mailman accidentally stuck envelopes in the folds of magazines when he jammed them down into the box.

The kitchen timer beeped and the smoke alarm wailed, but Eileen couldn’t stand up. Much less think of eating.