Now, coming back from Cohen’s, her old glasses in the new case they’d been nice enough to give her, she knew something was wrong when she saw the landlady peeking out at her from behind her first-floor window. Her hands shook as she jabbed the key into the front door. Once inside, the old woman opened her door and said she had found the envelope under the front door, without a stamp on it. Eileen recognized the block printing. Even if she hadn’t, she would have known it was from them.
She pressed it between her thumb and index finger. The softness felt like a packet of tissues or a wadded-up cloth. Or something. When she put her thumb under the flap and tore half of it open, enough to put her fingers inside, she felt what it was.
The ear fell on the floor. The thud it seemed to make as it bounced gently on the worn rug thundered in Eileen’s temple as her pressure soared. Her blood thickened as it froze and got stuck in her veins. Then it thawed, sending the icy liquid racing through her body, leaving a terrible cold under her skin.
Nausea rippled in her stomach and rushed through her ribs. It pushed to her throat, choking her. She strained the muscle under her tongue, trying to hold it back. But she couldn’t.
Eileen opened her mouth and threw up all over the little foyer.
Chapter 41
Louise was as dazzled as Elena by the array of real-looking figures that beckoned to the crowds of young girls who swarmed into the American Girl store on Fifth Avenue. The revolving door kept turning more people into the entrance, and if they didn’t step out quickly enough, they’d go around for another swing, right outside to 49th Street. The shrill squeals of excitement were contagious, and it seemed everyone was oohing and aahing and touching the dolls at the same time.
Louise and Elena were pushed along to the escalator and were just as eager as everyone else to explore the wonders of the second floor. Louise felt a little guilty for bringing Elena to a place where she could probably never return, never again enjoy an expedition to this wonderland. She promised herself she would buy her one doll and give her a glimpse into a universe of indulgence. But she was taken aback by the prices and by the seemingly unlimited must-have extras available for each personality—because each doll had not only a personality but an entire biography, cultural background, family history, hobbies, and goals. Louise enjoyed seeing Elena’s pure joy in holding some of the dolls.
Louise was part of the sisterhood of women watching their daughters and granddaughters and nieces examine the dolls, combing their hair with skinny fingers, trying to decide which one they liked best—and pleading for an extra outfit or shoes or the accompanying book. And once a decision was made, there would be a little cry of “Oh, look at that one. Isn’t she more beautiful?” Louise thought Elena would choose one that looked most like her—darker skin, curly black hair. So she was surprised when Elena picked Isabelle, with her long blonde hair and her aspirations to be a dancer—what Elena wished she looked like. For herself, Louise would have chosen a brunette with tanned skin and brown eyes.
How could Louise not get Elena an extra outfit for her doll? How could she dress and undress her little friend if she had only one thing to wear? So $134 for Isabelle, $36 for a dress—which was probably more than Yolanda spent on Elena’s clothes—another $36 for a makeup kit, and $30 for the accessory bag. Louise’s VISA credit card was probably smirking.
Fortunately, she had waited too long to make reservations for lunch, and the café was all booked. She’d take Elena somewhere for a hamburger or a slice of pizza. They certainly didn’t have stuff like this doll store when Louise was growing up, but her heart felt full with pleasure as Elena clutched her red shopping bag in one hand and took Louise’s hand with her other.
Chapter 42
Rosa opened the washrag, spread it under the cold water, slowly rotating it until it was soaked. Standing at the unfamiliar sink, more like a basin with legs, she looked around the small, old-fashioned kitchen, approving of its tidiness. She couldn’t help noticing that the cabinet doors didn’t close all the way, as the wood was swollen with years and years of paint. Or that the single work surface was badly pockmarked with nicks and cuts, that the original linoleum had holes large enough in places for the gray concrete to show through. It looked just like her own kitchen, down to the small Kelvinator. She had wanted to use ice cubes, but the trays were so stuck to the tiny freezer compartment that she couldn’t get them out. Funny—they both even had the same vintage toaster, the kind with little doors for the bread, from before toasters were pop-ups.
Rosa twisted the cloth tight, squeezing out the water, and wondered why she and Eileen Hargan, neighbors for at least forty years, had never visited one another, never been in one another’s apartment. Maybe they could start now. It would be nice to have someone from just down the block stop by, have a glass of Chianti, and talk. As soon as the poor woman was back to herself, Rosa would definitely ask her.
“Now, here, this-a gonna make you feel much better,” she soothed as she walked into the living room. She patted Eileen’s forehead and cheeks lightly so the cold wouldn’t shock her. Then she folded the cloth into a band and held it against her skin. “You feeling a little better now? Good.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Rosa sat down next to Eileen on the faded chintz couch and put her other arm around her, rocking her slightly.
“You sure that’s what he said?” Eileen’s words sounded like hiccups through her sobs. “That he couldn’t talk because he was in a meeting? Was it himself or his secretary?”
“No, he got on. After I tell the secretary it’s about his aunt. But don’t-a worry. You know how these big executives are. Always making important deals, at meetings. If I say you sick or in bad trouble, I’m sure he would-a come like that.” Rosa tried to click her fingers but her arthritic joints refused to bend. She made the gesture anyway.
“Always telling me he’d do anything for me, that I shouldn’t worry—he’ll take care of me in my old age. Always promising, her too, and then the first time I ask, just once I need someone, and where is he? He knows Fibber is my whole life. He should understand that it was almost a tragedy. God, I would have died…honest, look what just the thought of it did to me.” Eileen took the washrag to wipe her nose.
“Well, the way I explain, maybe it really don’t sound too serious. As long as your boy”—Rosa patted Fibber McGee’s head—“is still here, alive, with you.”
“No, it’s not right. What could be worse? I ask you, what?”
“I know. You think I don’t know? If something happen to my Princess, I do like you do. Faint. Or die. Or kill somebody. Yes, I would kill anybody who hurt my little bambina. Monsters, that’s what they are. Scaring you like that. Where you suppose they get the ear from? Some poor little animal belongs to someone else? It’s not fake. Monsters, they are. Don’t worry, I stay here with you. We’re the same. If your nephew, if he come, he won’t understand anyway. About loving you dog so much. It’s better he don’t come. You see.” She stroked Eileen’s shoulder.
“Thanks. I’m so glad Miss Schlosser had enough sense to call you when she saw you walking by. But where could it have come from? Some other poor little thing…”
“And its mama crying her heart out somewhere.”
The buzzer jolted them both like an electric shock. Eileen gasped, her breath caught in her chest.
“You expecting company?” Rosa asked.
“No, no. It’s them. It’s them,” she wailed.
“Don’t be silly. Maybe Miss What’s-her-name downstairs, she wanna know how you feel?” Rosa insisted on being calm, even though her voice sounded far away to her, traveling the distance over her heartbeats.
“No, she would ring up here, not the downstairs bell. Oh, Fibber, come here, come here, they’re going to get you, and us too.”
Fibber stopped barking to cock his head at the front door and listen for footsteps.
“I go ask. Where’s your box?” Rosa anxiously looked around for an intercom, her legs turning soft as soon
as she stood on them.
“Outside the bathroom door. But it doesn’t work. You can’t talk, only ring back. Oh, no, don’t ring them in. Don’t let them in.”
“Mine neither. Doesn’t work. I’ll go down and see.” The buzzer sounded again, more shrill and more insistent. Rosa scrambled to the old box, originally brass but painted many times to match the different colors over the years. In the dim hallway, the two black buttons poked out of it like bulging eyes and, since she didn’t know which was the door release and which was for talking, she pressed them both, alternately, several times. She did that at home too. She became more nervous about somebody leaving before she could buzz the person in fast enough than she was about a stranger ringing.
She hurried to the front door and waited. The slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs kept in time with the thumping of her heart. She raced into the kitchen and came back with a long knife with a serrated blade that she knew would not be good to stab someone with. But feeling more secure, she clutched it to her breast and squeezed her right eye against the peephole. Ken Hollis’s warm smile was a sinister sneer in the pinpoint opening.
TWO
Independence Day
Chapter 43
Jason carefully slid the ruler down the paper. His tongue moved back and forth, circling around his lips, as he guided his hand to draw another line down the page. He leaned back and tilted his head at an angle to admire his handiwork. Pleased, he made columns of the headings—FLOOR, APARTMENT, TENANT, TELEPHONE, E-MAIL—trying to center each one in the space he had allotted. He smoothed the paper and slowly started copying the names from the steno pad he used for his notes. He would have preferred to type them in, but it would take much too long. He would have asked Chris, who was a whiz on the computer, but he didn’t want anyone’s help. He realized it wasn’t so much not wanting to share the responsibility as it was guarding his position of president. Protecting his control. Or just possibly, a way to have a secret from Chris, something private that he wasn’t a part of.
Something had happened to Jason recently; he felt different. He was different. Everything was different. For the first time in his life, he felt whole, complete. He didn’t know when it had happened or why; he never noticed a gradual change. One morning he woke up, and he was a different person.
He still loved Chris, actually loved him more intensely. But it wasn’t the same pathetic desire to be wanted, to be taken care of. It was an independent attraction. And it made Jason feel good about himself, about Chris, and about their relationship. Made him feel self-sufficient. Mature.
Even sex had changed. He no longer was turned on by the physical strength of Chris’s lovemaking. At some point earlier, he’d come to understand that before he met Chris he had found partners—looked for partners—who were very dominant, more so than his submissive nature demanded. He liked to be overcome, overtaken. Maybe so he didn’t have to admit that he had any choices, that he could say no. It was the easiest cop-out in the world. Pretend to himself that it wasn’t his fault. Meeting Chris had changed that, although he was the strong one and Jason the weak. Now, though, he preferred to be equal to Chris, not just give in to him. And now that he could say no, he didn’t. But it was by choice, not by indecision. And it was better like that. He was better. Who knows? he thought. I might even become the stronger one if this keeps up.
Jason stroked a piece of scrap paper with his fine felt-tip marker to make sure the ink was flowing smoothly. Then he carefully printed TENANT ASSOCIATION on the tab of a manila folder and filed his chart away.
Chapter 44
Michelle Kravitz peeled the paper off her straw and methodically rolled it up as she listened. Although she sympathized with Jessica—she wanted to feel as rotten as Jessica did—she knew that in the recesses of her mind, she was gloating. She imagined the fuzzy gray coils of her brain slithering into smirks—a proper scientific image for a psychotherapist! She quickly concentrated on smoothing out the strip of paper, pressing it back and forth with her fingers, pursing her lips to prevent a smile from forming.
“Do you blame me?” Jessica Marcus didn’t wait for an answer. “I mean, what more can I do? It just isn’t fair. All the years of sacrificing. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I considered I was sacrificing, because I did it willingly. I did it because I love Clifford. And now it’s finally finished. Or so I thought. He’s a real person. He doesn’t need me twenty-four hours a day. I can have a life of my own. And what happens? Waaah!” She exaggerated a wail.
The woman in the next booth turned around to see where the noise was coming from and caught Michelle’s eye disapprovingly, as if they were teenagers laughing over ice cream sodas and boys, instead of adults having a serious conversation over their Cobb salads. Michelle wanted to stick her tongue out at the woman. God, she was feeling bitchy today. Maybe because she was so disappointed herself.
“It’s unbelievable.” Michelle pushed her plate out of the way. She moved her glass closer and sucked her iced tea through the plastic straw. It gave her time to think of something to say, other than “At least you didn’t have to struggle. You always had a husband to support you, pay the rent. It’s not my fault that you had to stay home and take care of your son. I never had any choices to make, because I’ve always had to work to earn my own living. And I’ve come a long way, baby. On my own, with no help.” But of course she bit her tongue over the words.
Folding the wrapper tighter and smaller, Michelle felt herself sliding back into her professional mold. “Maybe you can try looking at it as a new challenge, instead of a defeat. I mean, anyone who could overcome all the obstacles you did—”
“But they were all beyond my control. That’s it, I think. I did what I could do, what I had to do. I didn’t have to decide anything. I just wanted Clifford to be normal, to get better.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, are you? You’ve told me often enough how your husband never gave you any moral support, how you had to do everything practically in spite of him. Well, that’s heavy decision making as far as I’m concerned, going against your husband’s opinions.”
“It sounds good but believe me, it was easy. Maybe because I was so determined. For Clifford’s sake. So what do you think I oughta do?”
“Well…”
“And please don’t give me that crap that you can’t advise me. I’m not a patient, remember? I never was.” Jessica’s voice softened. “Tell me as a friend.”
“Okay.” Michelle unrolled the hard little wad and ripped it into tiny pieces onto her plate. “Let me read the letter again…friend.”
Chapter 45
“A billion? That’s an incredible amount. Are you sure?”
“Nah, it could be fifty million. Or five million. What’s the difference? Whatever it is, it’s sickening. Maybe it was a hundred million. That’s it. God knows what they do to them.”
“Oh, I don’t want to know.” Eileen covered her eyes with her hands, as if that would stop her from hearing.
“You should know. How it’s ever gonna stop if nobody does anything? If they don’t even listen?”
“Maybe this isn’t the best time to discuss it,” Ken Hollis coaxed Rosa.
“When the time? When they all dead?” Her accent became thicker as her anger soared, and she sputtered her words. “Tortured. Maimed. For what? So’s some woman can put gunk in her hair, or they teach some college jerks that you pound a monkey’s skull with a hammer, it gets headaches?!”
“Don’t—please don’t,” Eileen wailed. “I can’t think about my poor baby, about what could happen to him.”
Rosa squinted at her as she shook her finger. “You should think about what coulda happen. Why you think they’re doing this? What you think they want him for?”
“What? What are you suggesting?”
“Suggesting? I’m not suggesting. I’m telling.” Still shaking her finger at Eileen Hargan, Rosa turned to Ken Hollis.
“They gonna take this poor lady
’s dog, the love of her life, and they gonna sell him to a laboratory, that’s what.”
Eileen threw her head back against the couch with a moan that sounded like it started in her knees.
“And torture him,” Rosa added maliciously.
Ken pulled himself out of the dainty chair. It reminded him of dollhouse furniture. Just like Eileen Hargan reminded him of a doll, with her translucent white skin and neat white hair, illuminated by the button eyes. So shiny, so blue, like colored glass. He knew she was made hard, like porcelain. And just as breakable. He towered over the two of them on the couch and gently touched Eileen’s shoulder. “Come on, now, you’ve got to do this. Not only for your Fibber McGee’s sake but for all your friends.” He patted Rosa with his other hand. “And their animals and all the people you don’t even know who love their pets as much as you do. Well, almost as much. C’mon now, it’s the only way.”
Oh, God, why hasn’t Danny come? Why isn’t he here to help? But this Mr. Hollis was so nice. He seemed sincere and warm. He didn’t try to humor Eileen by pretending he was a great dog lover or make fun of her for being so worried. No, he could probably be trusted. Why couldn’t her nephew be like him? “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. I suppose.”
“You listen to him. You gotta tell. Or nobody’s safe anymore.”
Eileen Hargan blew her nose loudly and then went into her bedroom. She returned and handed Ken four envelopes. “And that.” She pointed to the one Rosa had carried up and left on the little table by the door. “Okay, you stop them.” She sat down next to Ken Hollis and tapped her knee, signaling for Mr. McGee to sit in her lap.
Connections Page 11