Connections

by Jacqueline Wein

  She wanted to scream at them all, “There are poor animals out there being killed and tortured, and you’re writing about the jeans you bought!”

  Chapter 54

  Eileen rehearsed her excuse over and over before calling Judy Boylan. In the eleven years since they had retired and their bimonthly Thursday afternoon get-together had become a ritual, Eileen had never canceled. She knew it would have to be something terrible—worse than just not feeling well—to be believable. But under the circumstances, she couldn’t face gabbing and gossiping.

  She dialed the number but hung up before it started to ring. She paced in front of the phone, went to the bathroom, dialed again, and hung up a second time. Fibber watched her and then asked to go out. “Now, now, you don’t have to go. You just want my undivided attention,” she reprimanded him absentmindedly. “Later.” Unaccustomed to Eileen’s preoccupation, he slunk into the bedroom.

  She drank a glass of water, called again, and finally waited for Judy to pick up.

  “It’s Fibber; he’s sick,” Eileen said breathlessly, crossing her fingers behind her back and praying that just this one time, a lie would not come true. “I have to take him to the doctor.”

  “I could wait for you to come back,” Judy offered

  “No, no, he can’t squeeze me in ’til after lunch, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. And I’m so upset, I wouldn’t want to make any plans, in case it’s something bad. No, I wouldn’t be very good company.”

  “Why, Eileen Hargan, what makes you think you’re good company anyway?” A hearty laugh followed the question. “It’s fine; we’ll do it next week. Call me when you get back to let me know how he is.”

  Eileen thought she probably wouldn’t be up to it next week either. What could she say then? Now she’d have a whole week to worry about that! Thank God, in another few weeks, Judy would be going off for the summer, as she did almost from the day she had started teaching. She’d rent a villa for July and August—in Spain or Italy or Greece—where she said you could live like a millionaire. Then Eileen wouldn’t have to think about her or their date, at least until after Labor Day.

  She went to reassure Fibber McGee, who was curled up on her bed, licking himself. Eileen gasped when she caught him. “Naughty, naughty!” She shook her finger at him, trying not to look at the tip of the slimy red thing poking out of its furry sheath. “Shame on you, Mr. McGee. You’re much too old for that.”

  Chapter 55

  The corner of 181st Street and St. Nicholas Avenue was crowded with makeshift counters selling books for a dollar, velvet-covered trays displaying gaudy jewelry, and pillars of crates and cartons, the open ones on top spilling summer fruit. On an impulse, Yolanda stopped to examine the small cones of flowers poking out of pails of water on the sidewalk. She tugged at the wrapping paper of a bouquet of daisies to compare the freshness with another bunch. The vendor yelled at her, “Don’t you touch. You show me what you like, I give.”

  “All right, all right, don’t get excited.” She pointed to another bunch. “That one, with the pink carnations in it. How much?”

  “Same’s all of them. Five dollars, lady. Why you don’t take two together?”

  “No. One’s fine. Thank you.”

  “You take two, I give you both for eight dollars.”

  “No, really.” She watched him wrap the wet stems in another piece of paper and take out a huge wad of bills to give her change of a ten. She grabbed the singles and ran as she saw the M3 bus coming. It would probably take her an extra half hour to get down to 84th Street, transfer to the 86th Street crosstown, and then get back to the hospital, but she had a two-hour break before her second shift.

  She went to the back of the bus and sat at the edge of the seat, awkwardly holding the flowers away from her. The paper was already soggy. She’d just put them in front of the door. Ms. Sidway wouldn’t be home at this hour anyway. She wished she had some paper in her bag so she could leave a note, but this would be a nice surprise. Then she’d call tonight to tell her she had left them. To say thank you.

  Yolanda Santiago was a strong, determined woman. But without Louise Sidway, she didn’t think she’d have been able to get through the past year—her husband leaving. For good. She wouldn’t have cared so much if she weren’t so afraid for the kids. She could handle Elena. At least for now. She was a good girl but was depressed about her father. And the little ones would be okay. They were too young to understand. But it was Ricky who worried her. He had been hard enough to control when Ricardo lived with them. With Ricardo gone, she was sure her son would run off with one of the gangs, get into big trouble, and quit school.

  Then Louise came into their lives. And funny how things worked out, because Yolanda wasn’t even going to apply for assistance. If she hadn’t, the two women never would have met. The way Louise just stepped in and sort of took over, talking to Ricky like she was, as she called it, his “Dutch aunt” gave him an incentive to stay in school. And this part-time job she got for him was great. Of course, the job had been after school and only a few hours a week. Plus Saturdays.

  But now, during the summer, nobody was more surprised than Yolanda when Ricky got up by himself every morning, as soon as the alarm went off, and never complained about not being able to hang out with his friends. In fact, he seemed to like working. He seemed to take his responsibilities very seriously. She only prayed her little Ricky would make it through his last year of high school and graduate next June. God, she was proud of him. And when he used his own money to buy Elena that skirt, Yolanda almost burst with pride. And gratitude.

  She was making a decent living. Of course, arranging food on trays and delivering them to patients wasn’t the most exciting job in the world, but Mount Sinai was such a big hospital, she could always apply for something else, once she proved how good she was. At least that’s what Louise had said. And being able to work extra shifts like today, doing dinner too, gave her a chance to make extra money. Señora Sanchez, who watched the children for her, was so glad to have an adopted family to take care of, so glad to be around children again since hers were still in Colombia, that it didn’t matter how long Yolanda was gone.

  In fact, one of these days, Yolanda decided, she might even suggest that the señora move in with them. It would be cheaper for her and certainly cheaper for Yolanda. She probably never would, though. If Louise got the señora approved as an authorized day-care provider, then the state would start paying her. But all in all, things were working out. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. God was watching out for Yolanda. And so was a tough-looking, loud-talking redhead.

  Chapter 56

  Ken Hollis was just the right size for the wing chair. He was a little taller than Louise’s father, so his shoulders reached higher into the back. Even though Louise had had it recovered in a more modern fabric, she could still see its fancy brocade upholstery as it was in the living room in Maryland. Facing the fireplace, its textured back toward the archway entrance, her father’s body was invisible from behind, and the room looked empty. Only a corkscrew of pipe smoke hovering above the chair gave him away.

  Every time she walked into the apartment, the chair pulled her eyes toward it. The gray dotted with small wine-colored circles fit into the rest of the room, with her parents’ massive breakfront and her burgundy convertible sofa. It fit, but it seemed out of place, out of time. Maybe because her father was no longer there. But now, with Ken Hollis sitting in it, sipping a Jack Daniel’s, it once again looked comfortable. Part of a life, of a family.

  She could see Ken from the tiny kitchen, where she was opening the cabinets, looking for the peanuts and her mother’s little sterling silver bowl to put them in. She had been prepared to invite him up the other night after dinner. She had dusted and left the cocktail napkins and the glasses out. Scrubbed the bathroom sink. But it ended up being so late, because they had sat and talked for ages over their coffee, that she hadn’t asked him. And he never suggested it. It
hadn’t even bothered her. He walked her to her apartment, waited until she unlocked the inside door, and then gave her a little salute before going to the garage to pick up his car for what she knew was going to be a long drive home.

  It didn’t bother her because she knew he’d be back. Not this soon, maybe, but she just knew that she would see him again. That she was as comfortable with him as…well, as he was in the wing chair. No hassle, no funny business, no rehearsing what she’d say to get rid of him.

  Now, though, when she hadn’t expected to hear from him so quickly, when her hair was really frizzed up from the humidity, her makeup melted off, and her shirt stained from lunch, he calls her at work to ask if she wants to go for a hamburger!

  As Honda watched her put a coaster on the end table, his brows wrinkled, pleating the silver arrow in his forehead. His body was spread flat in front of the chair, his head resting on the ottoman between the thick rubber-maze soles of Ken Hollis’s Avias. Louise wanted to be pleased that Honda liked him. She was pleased, but resentment momentarily narrowed her lips. As soon as she sat down on the couch, holding her Chablis, Honda sighed audibly, turned onto his side, facing her, and closed his eyes.

  She took a long, slow swallow, looking at Ken through the distortion of her glass. He seemed to feel at home. So did she. It didn’t matter that she was home; it didn’t often feel like it to her. Louise leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes, letting the wine pave her esophagus with a sweet syrup and coat her insides with tenderness. Of course Honda was pleased. He missed her parents also; he missed having a man around. Louise was pleased too. If only Ken wasn’t so skinny.

  “Thank God.” Ken leaned forward to look at the dog. “What?”

  “I was getting stiff from not moving my legs. I was afraid to kick him.”

  “I don’t think it would have mattered. He seems to adore you.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Damned right I am. I get up at the crack of dawn to take him out. I rush home to feed him. I can’t go away for a weekend. I buy him the most expensive food, give him treats, and even cook for myself once in a while just so he can have leftovers. And how does he show his appreciation? By worshipping a total stranger!”

  “You sound just like a Jewish mother. In fact, you sound just like my Jewish mother.”

  “Does that mean I won’t have to convert for you?”

  “Yeah. Anyone who can lay the guilt on a dog will make a big hit with my family.”

  Louise laughed spontaneously. Without making any effort to tone down the volume of her usual guffaw, or to tell a funnier joke, or to soften the loud chortle that would suddenly seem to be the only sound in a room, without even trying, she knew her laugh was a dainty, ladylike trill. Because her heart was giggling.

  Chapter 57

  Eileen’s blue eyes took inventory of 83rd Street as they scanned both sides of the street, east to west and back again. Her head nodded unconsciously in time with her right foot tapping impatiently on the stoop. Fibber McGee whined. Eileen Hargan held on to the concrete banister and let him pull her down the steps. He led her to the next brownstone and circled the scrawny tree in front of it. Now that she couldn’t leave him home alone and had to take him with her wherever she went, he was outside more than ever. She wondered how he could possibly have anything left to make. He looked at her for approval as he lifted his leg over the miniature fence and dribbled a few drops. “Good boy, Mr. McGee. That’s my little man. Aren’t you good?”

  Eileen stood on the sidewalk, squinting into the sun. Waiting. She waved to Wally, who was sweeping the sidewalk a few doors up the block. She timed a black delivery boy going into the house across the street with groceries, making mental notes in case she was asked in court exactly how long he was inside—that was assuming they found the hacked-up body and caught him! When he came out not even two minutes later, whistling as he mounted his bike, Eileen shook her head vigorously from side to side to clear her ridiculous thoughts. Too much television. Too much imagination. Too much fear. But after what had happened to her—what almost happened to her—she had every right to suspect everyone. Of everything.

  Ah, the postman’s cap was outlined in the white haze, his Bermuda shorts exaggerating the geometric angles of his bare legs. The silhouette of his three-legged cart looked like a strange creature from another planet. Eileen walked toward the corner to meet him, silently rehearsing her complaint.

  “Morning, miss,” the postman called to her as he took his bundle up the steps of number 429 and disappeared inside. Eileen waited at the curb, with Fibber sniffing the ivy surrounding the tree trunks and leaving a few drops at each stop.

  “You come later and later each day,” Eileen said as he walked out, beginning to talk before the door closed behind him and he started down the steps. “Why, when I first moved here, the postman came at 10:00 every morning. Sharp. And then again at 3:00 in the afternoon.”

  “Two deliveries a day?” the postman responded in surprise. “How long ago was that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The service has been deteriorating for years, while the postage keeps going up. Now here it is, the seventeenth of the month, and my phone bill hasn’t come. Or Con Edison. They’re always here by the fifteenth. That’s when I pay them. That day.” She walked along next to him as he pushed the cart. He stopped and went into the next building, and when he came out, she continued the conversation as if he had never left. “I don’t like to be late, not even one day. I always pay everything on time. If they shut my phone off, it will be your fault.”

  “Now, you know they’re not going to shut your phone off if you’re one day late paying. Or a week late. You know what? They wouldn’t even shut it off if you didn’t pay at all. Not after all this time.” Joe Briney smiled good-naturedly, took the thick rubber band off a bunch of envelopes, and went into the next building.

  If it wasn’t Eileen, it would have been one of the other old ladies. He supposed they had nothing better to do than wait for each bill to come. When it didn’t, they yelled at the mailman. They were all like that. It must be a symptom of age, he thought, like arthritis. He’d have to warn his wife to look out. First time his bones creaked out loud in the morning or he asked why the Verizon bill hadn’t come on the appointed day—whichever came first, bones or bills—she’d better put him away.

  “That’s not the point,” Eileen said, as if there had been no interruption. “I just don’t want to be late. I like to pay everything when I’m supposed to. Keep my records straight.”

  “I know. I bet the phone company—and the gas company—wish all their customers were like you, Ms. Hargan. Beautiful out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s too hot.” Eileen looked up at the sky. “We need some rain.”

  “Here we are.” He took out his stack for her apartment building, and she followed him inside.

  “So, you taking the missus to California again this year?” Eileen asked.

  “Naw.” He fanned out the envelopes and started placing them in the boxes. “Too hectic. I just might stay home and do some stuff around the house—painting, things like that.”

  “Well, when you do, you’d better tell the other guy—the relief, the temporary helper—to be careful. Or I’m going to go down to 34th Street if I don’t get my mail on time.” Her wagging finger threatened him. “Or write to Washington!”

  “Tell you what: I’ll put up a note on the bulletin board to be extra careful about 83rd Street. But don’t worry; I’m not going ’til the fall, probably.” He passed her an envelope.

  For a minute, Eileen’s stomach turned queasy. But they didn’t actually mail anything; they delivered their messages in envelopes for her. No, with the service being what it was, how could anybody rely on the post office if they wanted to send a ransom note or one of those letter bombs she sometimes read about in the papers? “Hmmmph, it’s just an ad.”

  “Well, let’s see, we’ve got some more to get through.” It was a good thing Joe Brin
ey was easygoing by nature. Because next, they’d get mad at him for what people sent to them. But this one, she was one of the few who at least gave him a Christmas gift. Talk about inflation! She complained about stamps going up, but she was still giving him the same three dollars—crisp new ones in a money envelope—that she gave him nine years ago when he started this route. Poor little old lady, he thought. Poor? Hah, probably has a million bucks stashed away or close to it. He noticed the brokerage statements she got every month. What good did it do her, though, if she had nobody to spend it on…except her raggedy old dog?

  Chapter 58

  The temperature had hit 88 degrees by 11:00 a.m., and with the heat index at 97, the air was thick. It clung to bodies with a heaviness that weighed people down and sucked their energy. Breathing was exhausting. Like you were inside a cloud. The concrete sidewalks turned sticky and stuck to shoes. The steel and concrete and glass of tall buildings absorbed the sun’s rays and intensified their power. The humidity was oppressive.