Connections (8 page)

“It’s just another form of harassment. Trying to get us out so they can raise the rent.”

“They can’t get you out—especially you; you’re a senior citizen. Just calm down. They can’t touch you.” Everyone at the meeting seemed to be talking at the same time.

“Well,
I
think it’s the greatest thing that could’ve happened. It will mean security for all of us.”

“Look who’s talking. Sure, you can afford it. What about the rest of us? I live alone. I don’t have two salaries coming in.”

“The first thing is, we shouldn’t let animals in this building if it goes co-op. They cause a mess, and we’ll have the right to—”

“Oh, c’mon, lady, don’t be ridiculous, talking about what we’ll do
after
—”

“Quiet, please! Can we have some quiet?” The dentist who lived on the first floor and called the meeting used his fist as a gavel. The only response he got was a sore hand.

A deep voice shouted above the others. “What about the big shots? They’re only interested in buying at the insider’s price and then selling to make a profit.”

“That’s called flipping it over.”

“Who cares what it’s called? I call it greed. They’re not interested in how it affects their neighbors. Or the building. They just want to make money.”

“Whatever you think the landlord is up to, he’ll get his way!” Jason yelled before he had a chance to plan it. Although his volume was not as loud as some of the other voices, the sureness of his voice created a momentary lull.

Relieved, and still rubbing his hand, the dentist pointed to Jason. “Go on; finish.”

“Well, whatever motives you think they might have or whatever results they’re trying to achieve, it seems to me they’ll get their way if we keep this up. They’re counting on our acting like this. Divided. They know we can’t get together and make any decision.”

“He’s right.”

There was a chorus of “yeah, yeah.”

“Sh-h-h! Let the guy talk.”

Jason tried to curl his feet under the grade-school chair. There was no room to cross his legs. Even straight out, his right knee rubbed under the armrest. The classroom was too small for all the tenants who showed up, but at least the school let them have it for the night. He shifted his whole body so he was sitting sideway, which was slightly uncomfortable because everyone was looking at him. Or
to
him.

“Would you like to come up here and talk?” The dentist gestured, hoping to be helpful.

“No, that’s all right. I only think we shouldn’t let them get their way. We have to have an
orderly
meeting. It might sound dumb, but we should do it as parliamentary procedure. We’re in a classroom. We should try to remember how it’s done.”

“Yeah. Let’s elect a chairman,” someone called out.

“No, you’re supposed to first have nominations,” a voice demanded from the back of the room. And then the momentary order ended.

“Maybe we should do it by floor instead.”

“Well,
he
seems to know what he’s talking about. Why don’t we just make him the chairman?”

“You can’t pick somebody like that!”

“Why not? You want it official? Okay, I nominate…what’s your name?”

“Ruderman, Jason Ruderman. But look, I’m not interested in being—”

“I nominate Jason Ruderman as chairman. All those in favor say aye.”

“No, no, you have to have someone second it first.”

“Okay, I second the motion.”

“Me too.”

“Now we can vote. All those in favor, raise your hands.”

“Shouldn’t we have an alternative, like in politics? Aren’t you supposed to have a few candidates?”

All the disagreement and shouting before anything was even organized was a bad omen to Jason.

“Come on; let’s get it over with or we’ll be here all night. If we like him, fine. You got somebody better, nominate him.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. It’s okay with me, I just thought—”

“Sit down, will you? And this was a stupid time to call a meeting. Seven o’clock.”

“I second that. Next time, let’s make it either six o’clock or eight.”

“Six o’clock is too early. I don’t get home until six thirty.”

“This is ridiculous. And somebody is supposed to be taking minutes so they can write them up later.”

“Minutes? It’s going to be more like ‘hours,’ the way things are going.”

A chorus of voices called out more arguments.

“I nominate my neighbor, who’s an outstanding citizen and very good at getting things done: Nettie Pedersen.”

“Who’d she say? I didn’t hear.”

“Nettie Pedersen.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“The busybody on the tenth floor. The one with the chignon.”

“Sh-h-h-h. She’ll hear you.”

“Who cares? She’s a pain. Always putting memos in the lobby, going around asking people to sign petitions about the stupidest things. The way the garbage is picked up. Getting rid of dogs. Having the super fired. What’s a chignon?”

“I don’t want to buy; some of you do. I think we should find out from these two people what their position is. Whose side they’re on. Before we vote.”

“Good point, good point.”

Nettie Pedersen stood up, patted her bun (as if one hair had ever dared come loose from it), and said, “I think most of us here are in the same position—rent-stabilized tenants, having a difficult enough time making ends meet. Those of us who can manage are trying to put away something for our old age, since there might not be enough Social Security for us.” Her accusatory tone was meant for the senior citizens who were collecting it, using it all up.

Nettie Pedersen was not unattractive. In fact, she looked younger than she probably was. Her eyes were black and hard, like small agates set in their sockets. Her figure was bland, neither too heavy nor too thin, too tall nor too short. In fact, she was a totally nondescript person. Until she opened her mouth to talk. Then her overbearing self-righteousness animated her. “Even if they offer the apartments at very low prices, who could afford them? You have to figure a monthly mortgage payment,
plus
the maintenance, which will probably be more than the rent we’re paying now.” A few murmurs were heard, and she nodded to her supporters. “I think we have to do everything we can to stop it. Keep the building a rental. At least that way, there’s only so much they can raise us every year.”

Several people commented their agreement. “Yeah, I’m all for that.”

“Right, we can’t let it go through.”

“You got my vote, lady.”

Jason felt like a giant in his Lilliputian chair, but he refused to stand like a schoolteacher in front of the blackboard, like the Pedersen woman. “I must tell you honestly that I don’t know
what
I want to do,” he said, and before anyone could moan about his indecision, he added, “We don’t have enough facts to make any kind of sound decision. I might tend to feel one way now, but I could change my mind when I talk to some knowledgeable people. I think that goes for all of us. And you senior citizens who are so nervous about your fixed incomes and being able to afford the maintenance, if you read the red herring, you would see that no matter what kind of plan we end up with,
you
cannot be evicted. Ever. So you have nothing to worry about. I think our first priority is to get organized and have a really strong tenants’ group. Then we get an attorney to represent us. Once we decide the pros and cons, we can either fight the conversion so we
don’t
go co-op or try to get the best deal possible, if we do. The most important thing is…whatever we do, we should do it together. After all, we’re all on the same side. We want to keep our homes. Keep living here.”

A few people clapped hesitantly. Then more joined in. As they looked toward Jason, he shuffled his legs under the desk.

“Fucking faggot,” Nettie Pedersen hissed between her teeth.

It seemed familiar. The Pine-Sol disinfectant, the flap of starched jackets against starched pants, the steady peeling of crepe soles off the waxed floors. The background din of howls and whines and yelps and moans. Kola couldn’t recognize the place. She didn’t have to. It reminded her of the other place. Her senses were sharpened by fear, and the sounds and smells were exaggerated. The soft hairs that made her fur so smooth stiffened into quills, pricking inward, piercing her skin. Her tongue ached from swallowing to try to force saliva into her throat. The saliva that bubbled around her mouth and hung from her tongue. Her instinct to run away and to be free hurled her against the door.

Then the small arms were around her middle, the light body on her back. And even though they were much too weak to restrain her, the strength of the little boy’s love hugged her. “Don’t worry, Kola. I’m not going to let them hurt you. Ever. And I’m not going to leave you here. You gotta come home with me after.”

She let Clifford lead her back to the bench where Jessica was sitting, the woman’s arm reaching for both of them. She sat between the boy’s legs. Rather than prison bars, Kola knew they would shelter her.

“Oh, what a sweetheart you are.” Clifford instinctively held Kola tighter, but he smiled at the lady who had just come into the waiting room. “Aren’t you a honey,” she said to Kola who knew, without being touched, that the lady was not speaking to Clifford or to his mother but to her, in a warm, friendly way. Kola stood, her tail arched in a plume behind her. When the woman saw the welcome reaction, she went over to Kola. “Wanna know who thinks you’re gorgeous, huh? Well, we glamour girls have to stick together.”

Jessica bent her head to hide her smile. Because Laurie Epstein was probably the most unglamorous person she had ever seen. Her features were bland, and her brown eyes looked huge in the expanse of forehead because she didn’t seem to have any eyebrows. Her cheeks were dented with tiny reminders of old pimples.

Kola’s tail made furious circles in the air. Clifford pretended to walk to the front door, knowing, hoping, that she would bound after him.

Understanding the jealous maneuver, Laurie went on talking directly to the dog. “Yes, I know you’re a sweetheart and you like this attention, but you only have eyes for your little master, right?” Squatting, she turned and said to Clifford, “She’s just beautiful. What’s her name?”

He stared back, without speaking. Jessica’s heart pleaded with him not to snap back to his old self. It was the first time she remembered seeing him act threatened—before this, he didn’t care enough about anything to feel threatened. “Kola,” Jessica said for him.

“Like in Coca?” Laurie spoke directly to Clifford, even though the answer had come from his mother. “What a nice name. I bet you thought of it.” Laurie talked to him as if the conversation was between the two of them.

He nodded his head.

“I think it’s very clever,” Laurie said.

“She’s
my
dog,” Clifford insisted.

Jessica exhaled.

“Oh, I could tell that right away,” Laurie agreed, continuing to stroke the dog’s head. “Soon as I walked in.”

“You could?” Clifford came closer.

“Of course. Just the way she was sitting close to you, there was no question you’re her owner. She’s probably a lucky dog to have you. I know you take good care of her.”

“Me too. I’m lucky.” He squatted right beside her. “She’s the best dog in the whole world. And she’s my best friend.” He put his hands on her possessively but let Laurie keep on petting her.

“Well, then, I’d say you’re both very lucky, aren’t you?” Laurie said. “Have you brought her here before?”

“No, we only got her a few weeks ago.”

“Well, have you answered all the questions yet?” She looked toward the top of the receptionist’s head, visible in the open glass window.

“No.”

Stacy lifted her head and whined, “I was just going to call them in, as soon as I got finished here.”

“Just asking, just asking,” Laurie said. “Want me to do it for you? I’m back early.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay.” She reached for Clifford’s hand. “Now, what’s your name?”

“Clifford,” he said, hiding his hand behind his back as Laurie reached for it.

“Come on, Clifford. We’ll go take some information from you. Or maybe it would be better for you to sit out here with Kola and keep her calm, and I’ll talk to your mom.”

“Okay?” he asked his mother.

Jessica nodded and followed Laurie inside. She couldn’t remember why she had thought Laurie was unattractive. And yes, she did have eyebrows, although they were very light. Her warmth toward Kola and her kind looks toward the other patients softened her face. With a new hairdo, some eyebrow pencil to frame her eyes, shadow, and a makeup base with good coverage, she’d be beautiful. Well, maybe not exactly beautiful. But certainly striking.

When Laurie finished taking what short case history there was, she went back to the waiting room to say goodbye to the little boy and to give the dog one last pat. She dropped the form on Stacy’s desk, thought better of it, and took it with her upstairs. She wanted to add her own observation of Jessica Marcus’s miracle to the computer.

They hadn’t bothered to cut letters or words out of the newspaper, like they did on TV or in the movies. Maybe because they knew Eileen would never show it to the police or to anyone. Her instinct had been to call Danny, but she was afraid he would screw it up—take the note to the FBI or worse, try to find the perpetrators himself. Yet she was afraid
not
to call him. She didn’t know what to do.

The instructions had been simple enough. Go to D’Agastino’s on 80
^th
and York. Buy anything. Ask for a brown paper bag; if they didn’t have any, then take the plastic. Place 10,000 dollars in tens and twenties, fold over the top of the bag. Wrap it around the bills as tight as possible. Scotch tape the flap. Make sure D’AG BAG is on the outside. At 10:30 on Friday morning, go to Gristede’s on 86
^th
and First, take a basket, and walk down a few aisles. Examine some items, like a head of lettuce or tomatoes. Act naturally, compare prices, check the weight. Put the items in the cart, stroll around, get a roll of towels or a package of toilet paper, and put all the items on top of the brown bag. Go to the pet supplies, leave the cart in front of the dog biscuits, start examining different products on the shelves. Take one or two items in your hand to look at the labels, and make your way up the aisle. Pick up a package of rawhide chews, go to the express lane, and pay for it. Don’t look back at the cart while you’re shopping. If somebody happens to be in the aisle and tells you that you forgot your cart, say thank you, put your hand on the cart handle, and continue looking around the dog food until that person is gone. Check out, go home, and wait.

Or never see Fibber McGee again.

Eileen didn’t know if she could call it a ransom note…
before
a kidnapping had taken place. She pondered the question for the rest of the day, as if that would make the difference as to whether or not she had to pay it.

It wasn’t a joke. When she read the first few sentences, she thought somebody was playing a game. Who would expect her to have 10,000 dollars? And what would she have that would be worth a fortune to her? Nothing, except her little love.

Eileen didn’t have to take her notebook out and turn to the columns to know exactly how much cash she had. She had five CDs, four for 10,000 dollars; one for 15,000. She used the interest to supplement her Social Security and her Board of Education pension. And that was barely enough. Occasionally, she thought about not renewing one of them, so she could keep 10,000 dollars handy in a savings account for when she absolutely had to have extra money for something. But suppose she lived another twenty years? Even at age seventy-three, another twenty years was feasible. Fifty-five thousand dollars wouldn’t last as long as she would, especially with inflation. And now, the thought of just taking almost a quarter of it and giving it away…she shuddered.

She thought of all the times she’d done without, because she didn’t want to break up the even amount. A vacation, maybe. (That was before she had Fibber, when she was younger and would have enjoyed a cruise or a week in a resort.) A new winter coat. Re-covering the couch. And each time she thought about doing something, she decided she’d feel better not doing it but knowing the money was in the bank.

Now…

Of course, she’d probably die with every cent intact, and Danny would get it. That was fine with her. It made her feel good to know how grateful he would be. Although she wouldn’t be around to see it. But what about Charlene? She’d end up spending it on new clothes, or redecorating, or tennis lessons, the way she was doing now. There was always the possibility that Danny would leave her. Oh God, if only that boy would come to his senses. At fifty-seven, he wasn’t really a boy anymore. And they had been married almost twenty-five years. But then if they did get a divorce, Charlene would sue him for alimony and get half of Eileen’s money anyway. The money she had so diligently put away every single week for her entire life. Painstakingly. Dollar by dollar in an envelope, traded in for tens, each hundred deposited. Every thousand reached, a triumph. No matter how hard it was. Of course it wasn’t so hard years ago when she lived with her parents and her expenses were low. It was easy to save then.

Her skin crawled as she imagined Charlene showing off a fur or a piece of jewelry. It would kill her. But how could it kill her if she were already dead? Unconsciously, she smiled at her stupidity and reached out for Mr. McGee. As she squeezed the back of his neck affectionately, she realized the money didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except her little boy. She would die if anybody touched him. Took him away. Or if they ever considered…no, that was just to scare her.

She was sure. Who would hurt an innocent little animal? They were just trying to show her they meant it. She would do anything, spend anything, to save him.

It could have been worse. They could have made it 50,000 dollars. Or 100,000. Thank God, they didn’t. Then she would have to think about selling some of the stock too. She had every share her father had left her. Never touched it—since 1977! She knew her sister had had to sell most of hers over the years. That was different; she had a mortgage; she had a child to bring up and put through school. There was almost nothing left when she died.

But suppose she got sick? They’d put her in a public hospital in a ward and let her waste away if she couldn’t afford to pay. If she had a stroke or a heart attack, they could send her to one of those state-run nursing homes. Just leave her there in a bed, with festering sores and dirty sheets. Until she died. No, she had to keep that money for her old age. Danny would probably laugh and say, “When do you think you’ll reach old age if you’re seventy-three now?”