Chapter 46
Felix meowed from the top of the toilet tank.
“Sure, easy for you to say,” Laurie teased him. “You don’t have to change the litter.”
He watched her rake the pebbles, leaving smooth tracks in the box. He jerked his head as she swung the seat up, close to him, to shake the plastic shovel over the bowl before returning it to the corner caddy meant for the toilet brush. “And that’s the thanks I get for coming back early, huh? For bringing my stuff home to work here. Keep you company.” She washed her hands and shook the water at him. He tried to claw it. He waited, alert and anxious. She laughed as she sprinkled him again and again. He was sitting on the edge of the tank, his right paw reaching toward the sink, trying to catch the spray. “You’re so dumb.” Laurie opened her folded fingers over his head. “Dumb, dumb, dumb. You haven’t caught it yet, have you? Why don’t you give up?” Oscar followed the trail of her playful voice into the bathroom and joined the fun.
“Okay, guys, gang up on me, right? Well, I’m gonna get you.” She took a hand towel and swiped at them both with it, daring them to catch it, as she dangled it every which way, just out of their reach. A dog would have grabbed it and had a serious tug of war. But Laurie was beginning to enjoy feline grace and agility more and more, as well as the indifference that she had laughingly told Stacy was good for humility—hers, not the cats’.
When the game was finally over, Laurie felt good about playing with them, about playing herself. They were still wound up and chased one another for a while, until Felix curled up on the couch, ready for a nap.
Laurie cleared a space on the dinette table, emptied the manila envelope, and spread out all the brochures and reports and pamphlets and newsletters she’d been collecting from all the humane societies, and wildlife coalitions, and animals’ rights committees, and conservation groups, and animal-protection organizations. Then she took her highlighter and made angry red slashes across the facts she would enter into the computer.
Chapter 47
The uptown express on the Lexington Avenue line ground into the Brooklyn Bridge station. The rush-hour crowds, anxious to get home, pushed each other to make sure they got on before the doors closed.
From the narrow, twisted alleys that the rays of the sun never reach to the broad cobblestone plaza of the Seaport, from the judicial aura hovering over the courthouses and state office buildings to the clamor of people examining exotic vegetables and slimy fish on the streets of Chinatown, from the new boutiques and shopping avenues to the smell of money and power on Wall Street to the smell of souvlaki and frankfurters steaming in sidewalk carts, from the bleat of the Staten Island ferry to the splash of water against wood pilings, from the vendors selling their watches and T-shirts to the new glass and steel monuments shadowing them, Lower Manhattan throbbed with its own pulse.
Before she had plunged into the darkness of the underground, Louise stopped for a second to look up at the skyline. The setting sun glinted red on the new World Trade Center and bounced a rosy glow on window glass and building cement angled to catch its reflection. Her heart lifted with her eyes. She wondered how something so astonishing could seem so ordinary. Then she allowed herself to be pushed down the stairs with the mob.
The wave of people rolled to the sway of the train. The air conditioning turned clammy perspiration to ice, freezing the odors of bodies pressed close. Louise leaned her weight against her taut right arm in the stirrup and thought about buying a bottle of bourbon on her way home. Just in case.
Chapter 48
Jason slapped water in his armpits and lathered them. He rubbed the foam onto his chest and stuck his belly out so the water would hit it. He wanted to get an early start this morning so he could take care of the paperwork and finish up by the time Suzanne came in. Then at least he could make the meeting at Roosevelt Hospital and be back in time to close the store. He didn’t know how he got invited to join an organization like SAVE. It was a joke that they said they heard he was active in tenants’ rights. Didn’t they realize it was only in his own building? And what did tenants’ rights have to do with AIDS anyway? Or gay rights, for that matter? He didn’t want to get caught up in another cause. Especially this one, which seemed far removed from his life. Well, there was no harm in going once.
It did seem worthwhile—Support for AIDS Victims Everywhere—matching up volunteers to neighborhood sufferers. But why was it necessary, with AIDS so much on the decline today that it was practically nonexistent? If you could call 50,000 new cases a year “nonexistent.” And with HIV under control. If you could call the 34 million people worldwide with AIDS under control. Well, the guy said even though it started as an AIDS thing, it was more for cancer patients undergoing debilitating radiation or chemo treatment. It was performing normal, everyday functions for those too sick to handle them but not sick enough to be bedridden. Walk a dog, pick up a package at the post office, get a suit from the dry cleaners, do a load of laundry, pick up the person from chemo or radiation. He certainly didn’t have to commit himself to anything with them or to spending any time organizing and recruiting, as they suggested. He didn’t have any time, for God’s sake. But it was the dog part that got him. He knew how he would feel if he was sick and not able to take care of Sabrina. It reminded him of POWARS—Pet Owners With AIDS Resource Sources—once a very strong organization but disbanded fifteen or sixteen years ago for lack of need.
A draft hit his back as the bathroom door opened. The curtain slid across the rod. He whirled his head around just as Chris lifted his foot over the rim of the tub. Chris stepped in, reached across Jason to get the bar of soap from its pocket in the wall, and then stroked Jason’s back with it. The soap thudded as it fell to the floor. Chris’s fingers played with Jason’s slippery skin, gently rubbing his shoulders, massaging, sliding to his buttocks, kneading…his finger tracing the crack where his cheeks split, finding the hole, lingering at the opening, retracing its route. Jason’s breath stopped in his chest.
Weak from the steam and the desire rising in his lungs, Jason leaned forward and braced his arms against the tile under the showerhead, the water hitting him low on his back. He heard the squeak of Chris’s knees rubbing the porcelain a second before he pulled his cheeks apart, hard, and tickled his anus with his tongue. Jason flattened his palms on the faucets, his weight against his arms. His muscles made shiny ripples under his skin. Then Chris’s fingers jabbed inside him and pushed his insides out in a jet of white syrup that hit the wall. It hung on the tile. Then slowly slid down to the drain.
Chapter 49
Lenny hesitated at his front door, methodically cracking his knuckles one by one. He could turn around and go right back downstairs, and…and what? He really had nowhere else to go except home. But it didn’t feel like home anymore. Not home like his parents’ house was, even after all these years. Not the warmth of a family sitting around a fire, the poppa reading the paper, the mama knitting, and all the children doing their homework or napping or laughing at comic books. Who was he kidding? His family never owned a fireplace in their lives. His mother didn’t knit or crochet. And the children never got along well enough to be in one room doing anything together except fighting. Yet the memories were warm. Or maybe it was the longing for that childhood, or the loss of his own youth, or going back to a time before responsibility and pain and problems.
As the elevator door quietly closed behind him, a sense of hopelessness overwhelmed him. As if his last route for escape was gone. But deep down, he knew better. There never was any escape. Not for people like Leonard Marcus, whose stability and values forced them to endure. To suffer their obligations. Until they died. Or cracked.
Chapter 50
Laurie followed the cursor across her screen, her fingers trying to keep in time to the bouncing ball. She didn’t break her rhythm as she glanced at her watch. Since they changed the procedure and no longer allowed the attendant to relieve Stacy, Laurie actually felt better. If she didn’t ha
ve an excuse to come downstairs every day, she probably wouldn’t even stop for lunch. Yesterday had been a disaster. But you’d think when she lost track of the time and didn’t come right down after Stacy buzzed her that somebody would have called her to ask where she was. Instead of sitting there until Dr. Pomalee came back with Dr. Stevens, and the patients were piled up. It was so crowded and so noisy that two people paced outside in the street with their large dogs to avoid a ferocious confrontation in the waiting room. But that was precisely why she took charge now. The kids who worked there summers and part-time during school months—even those who wanted to go in for veterinary medicine—didn’t have the smarts to handle the reception desk or schedule appointments. Except maybe Rick. He was good. But he had too many other responsibilities since the other attendant quit.
At 11:55, she exited the program. The main menu came back to the screen with the prompts she needed. She patted the top of her machine in approval. She was just as amazed as she had been the first week that all the information would be filed away. She carried the pile of rabies and distemper reminders she had printed in their self-mailers and went down to the front desk.
“How’s it going?” she asked as she fanned out the morning’s chart folders to get an idea of who had been treated so far. “Busy?”
“Not too bad.” Stacy swiveled her chair around to face Laurie. “Except the damn phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Mrs. Lefkowitz came in for diarrhea and no sooner did she get here than Bruno shit all over the floor. She ran outside for him to finish, but of course I couldn’t find Rick, so I got stuck cleaning it up. It was loose. Like water. Yuck.”
“That’s show biz, huh?” Laurie winked absently.
“There’s more. A first-timer came in with the cutest little puppy. She just adopted it from the Humane Society. Wanted to check her out. The little thing was so scared, she made a puddle, not five minutes after I cleaned up the other mess.”
“Oh, well, at least you worked up an appetite for lunch.”
“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking how I lost it completely.”
“Force yourself.”
Stacy leaned over and stretched her lips in the small mirror taped over her desk just under the reception window. “And most important”—her words were distorted through her open mouth as she applied gloss—“if Dr. Michaels calls from the AMC, get a number and find out when he can be reached. I left three messages for him. Dr. Haberkorn needs to talk to him.”
Laurie ran her finger down the appointment book, wanting to see how much time she’d have before the first afternoon arrival. “Mmm, nobody’s due ’til 12:30.”
“Right, but Dr. Stevens is off this afternoon, and Dr. Pomalee said he’d be back about 1:00.”
“Okay,” Laurie said.
“And Mrs. Bassetti called. She wants to come in to pick up some more Lasix for Princess’s heart. I left it on top of the film, so you don’t have to go hunting for it.”
“Thanks. Enjoy,” Laurie called as Stacy whipped the long handle of her bag over her shoulder like a lasso.
Chapter 51
Princess hung from the large breast, her belly pressed against the soft flesh, her back paws dangling straight, unable to swing close to her midriff. She rested her head on Rosa’s shoulder, her face turned in to her neck. She was unable to see her mistress’s eyes, but she felt them warming her, just as she felt the security of the hand that cradled her little back and would not let her fall.
Rosa walked back and forth, humming an Italian lullaby, as if rocking a baby. She stroked her head. “Who’s Mama’s little girl?” she sang. She made a hole between two of the slats in the old wooden blinds and closed one eye to peek out. “Who would do such a thing? Dio, it’s terrible. Terrible. Thank heaven, Fibber McGee, you little friend, he’s okay.” Rosa tilted her head lightly against Princess’s, her hair on the dog’s fur.
Without disturbing a muscle, Rosa walked to her easy chair and carefully backed into the seat. Sitting, she swayed her buttocks slightly in the cushion to soothe Princess, who was already asleep. “What I would do if something happen-a you, bambina.” She tightened her hold. “I die if you die. You hear?” She nuzzled her face, and Princess opened her eyes. Rosa shifted her to her lap and caressed her body, so frail, so tender where her fur had thinned.
“But worse, much worse—ah, I cannot even-a think—what would happen to you, my precious, if I die. My heart, it breaks to think about my poor little baby crying for me, wondering where I am. Like if those men do something terrible and take you away. You crying, looking for your mama, waiting for me to come get you. Oh Dio, Dio mio,” Rosa wailed and hugged her Princess tight. Then, making an effort to be more rational and because she could not even conceive of such a notion, she thought about her will. Maybe she should change it. After all, even though she indicated that Princess should be sent to Italy to her sister, would they send her poor baby there? How could she ride in the plane by herself? In a crate? And maybe Josie wouldn’t be so loving, even though she promised. Or maybe she’d be too old or too sick. Or dead too. And now that it looked like Marliese would not be coming back, what would she do?
Rosa gently put Princess on the floor before she stood up and suddenly decided to ask Eileen Hargan if she would take care of Princess if she should die. She patted her bun, put on deep-red lipstick, and picked up her black pocketbook. “You stay home and mind the house. Mama gonna pick up you pills.” Rosa double-locked the door. Her chest hurt from the fear. And she looked up at the high, dark ceiling in the hallway and silently reminded God that He had to let Princess die first.
Chapter 52
The plastic crackled as Clifford pressed the ridges of the zipper down to close the bag. He liked the popping sound it made. He pulled the two halves apart, took the peaches out, smoothed it flat on the table, and locked the tracks together again.
“I’ll be right there, honey. Got all your stuff?” Jessica asked from the bedroom.
“Yes, Mom.” He put the fruit back, zipped the bag for the last time, and stuck it in his backpack. “Have a nice day.” Clifford squeezed Kola good-bye, lingering over the hug. “You be good and ’fore you know it, I’ll be home.” His voice was a husky whisper. He raised it to call “Ready.”
“Coming, sweetie.” Jessica hurried to the front door, held the green canvas bag behind Clifford so he could put his arms in the straps, patted Kola reassuringly, and said, “You be careful now. Be back soon.” As the elevator stopped in the lobby, she asked Clifford, “Got everything?”
“Why’d you say that? ‘Be careful.’”
“I don’t know. Just an expression.”
“Not for a dog. You don’t tell a dog, be careful. What’s she got to be careful about anyway?”
“I said it was just something I said. It didn’t mean anything.” The guilt crept into Jessica’s answer. “Today’s the pool day, huh?”
“Yes, but it’s silly to say that to an animal. As if she has to look both ways before crossing. Or not talk to strangers. Or sumpthing!”
“All right. I didn’t mean it. You want me to go home and say I’m sorry to Kola?” She nudged his arm apologetically as they crossed 68th Street.
As soon as she dropped Clifford off, waiting on the sidewalk to make sure he went inside the Center, Jessica headed toward the bus stop on Lexington. Her fingers played inside her pocket, nervously polishing her keys. Lenny could not make a decision like this for her or without her. It affected her life more than it affected his anyway. What right did he have to say it was his money because he worked for it? She worked just as hard providing a home and being a wife and mother. Maybe harder. And him sitting all day, adding up columns, calculating numbers, reading ledgers. Where were his priorities? If they didn’t pay up, and they actually took Kola—kidnapped her as they threatened—Clifford might regress to his other self. And where would that leave her? Back to being a slave. She couldn’t risk it. Even if it meant not going to graduate school, she had to use the
money. Clifford’s health should be their first priority.
And where did he get off saying she wasn’t allowed to write out a check on their money market account, that she could only use the checking account?! It was a helluva lot of money. But you couldn’t put a value on Kola. Or on what she had done for their lost little boy, unlocking his mind, freeing him, when all the treatments and therapies and all the doctors hadn’t been able to. Fifteen thousand dollars was cheap when you looked at it like that.
As soon as Merrill Lynch cashed the check for her, she’d put the money in a pillow case like they said and toss it in dryer number four in the Laundromat on 83rd Street, between First and York. Jesus, suppose somebody had a week’s load of wash in there? What if the money fell out of the pillow case? Jessica had visions of an audience standing in front of the machine, staring in its porthole, hypnotically watching the bills spin dry. Maybe she should staple it closed. Which pillow case should she use? Any one she chose would ruin a set of linens. Maybe Clifford’s Batman one, instead of breaking up her king-size pair. No, he’d be upset. God, here she was giving away a chunk of their savings and worrying about losing a twenty-dollar pillow case.
Chapter 53
Laurie swore she’d never do social media. She had opened a Facebook account a few years ago but never posted anything on it, never searched for a “friend,” and never responded to anyone looking for her. Not that too many people were trying to find her. Now, however, to take a break from the depressing statistics she was reading and inputting, she went to Facebook—and then had to look for the password she had used so long ago to open the account.
Who cared what someone had for breakfast, for God’s sake, or what movie they went to or how they liked a restaurant? Why would anyone be interested? It was like reading someone’s boring diary. She didn’t understand what the appeal was, how some people felt compelled to write every single day about what was going on in their lives, which was nothing, and search other people’s pages to see what they were doing and eating and feeling. Such a waste. She had no idea how to tweet or blog or do any of those other things. And she didn’t want to know.
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