Connections

by Jacqueline Wein

  When Laurie finally got home, she rushed past Felix, waiting by the door to be greeted, to throw herself across her bed. She grabbed the pillow as she fell and let her grief explode in sobs.

  Chapter 116

  Children of all sizes and ethnic backgrounds clustered outside the entrance to the zoo, in groups according to age and the bright matching shirts with the name of the day care or community center or church they belonged to ironed onto both the front and back. They darted in and out between the same color-coded adults. Some wandered off and intermingled, so one blue shirt stood out in a mass of orange; two red shirts were spotted in the green group. Their escorts shouted at them and chased them, sounding more like drill sergeants than day-camp counselors. It was virtually impossible for a child to get lost, but there was always one, sometimes two, who found a way—especially the youngest, who were easily distracted by a balloon, a squirrel, a pigeon, or a paralyzing fullness in the bladder.

  So they were lined up by the counselors and counted and re-counted to make sure no one was missing. This was the first time since the subway platform when they got off the train, before walking hand in hand up Fifth Avenue to 64th Street where, still attached to each other, they undulated down the wide stairs like a gaudy Oriental paper snake.

  Clifford watched casually as some of them scrambled to find room on the long wooden benches while their leftover mates talked and laughed and played silly tricks on each other. Each day the children were different; the shirts were different, as were the organizations and the leaders. What remained the same was some kind of roll call and a consultation by the sergeants to plan their strategy for maneuvers inside. Since the Central Park Zoo had been redesigned long ago, and the big animals moved to more humane habitats in the Bronx, the zoo seemed much smaller. And, except for the youngest visitors, who were fascinated by everything, the older kids seemed disappointed by not seeing elephants and tigers and giraffes. That was on the way out. On the way in, they were excited and hyper and eager to get on with their day trip. This was the time they started munching their snacks.

  Clifford had become adept at his scam. He nonchalantly wandered toward the kids about his height so that even though his shirt didn’t match, he wouldn’t be very noticeable. Most days, he’d see an occasional white shirt like his on somebody whose mother had forgotten it was the trip day. Of course, all the kids made a fuss over Kola, pushing one another to get close enough to pet her. And Clifford, between answering what her name was and what kind of dog she was and how old she was, would point to the kids’ snacks and blatantly ask, “Can I have a few of those?” The kids were eager to exchange a few pretzels or Goldfish or a cookie or popcorn for an extra chance to touch the massive dog—the first real animal they’d seen since arriving at the zoo. Clifford usually mooched enough to satisfy his mid-morning hunger, and sometimes he was even offered a whole bag to take with him for later.

  Now, as the counselors urged the children to assemble, Clifford walked over to the iron railing opposite them and wiped his hands on his denim-clad thighs. “Good girl,” he told Kola, as she sat on her waving tail. They watched the assorted children pounce through the turnstile, shouting happily.

  Clifford imagined them going home and chattering to their parents about everything they’d done and seen, about the big, beautiful white dog with golden spots who licked their hands. Maybe their parents would tell them to sit down and eat or get into their pajamas or wash up or brush their teeth, before being snuggled into bed. Clifford missed his bed. He missed home. And he missed his mother more than anything. But he could never go back, and he would probably never see her again. As long as he lived. He didn’t have to worry anymore about being asked to choose between his parents, or about living with his father, or about Kola being sent away. Since she’d bitten that man, he knew that if they ever found her, they’d take her away. Kill her. Maybe even arrest him! No, they’d have to hide forever.

  “C’mon, Kola. Let’s go, girl.” Clifford swiped his nose with the back of his hand and led his dog back into the depths of the park.

  Chapter 117

  Louise usually ate at her desk. It was too hot to wander around or sit outside on a bench or a step or a ledge, like all the other clerical picnickers. The streets were a smorgasbord of vendors, and it was more comfortable to pick up something and come back to the air conditioning, even if the office was noisy and distracting. It gave her a chance to catch up on a few personal chores, like writing a long overdue e-mail to her aunt and reading a few pages of a magazine while she nibbled at her salad.

  Ken had surprised her the other day when he was downtown for a meeting by calling her for lunch. He’d insisted on picking her up in her office, even after she’d suggested meeting in a restaurant or in her lobby. She’d acted like an adolescent, blushing when the receptionist escorted him down the maze of hallways to point out the doorway of her cubicle and then waited to see how they greeted each other. Louise showed him around a little, trying to disregard the questioning looks from coworkers as she took him on a tour. When she’d occasionally had to make an introduction, she’d felt awkward. She didn’t know what to call him—my friend, my boyfriend. My lover. Silly. She had shared some very personal moments with this man, and she was afraid, she realized now, she might embarrass him by calling him her boyfriend. Didn’t want to make him feel that she had assumed they had a thing going. She must really need to have her head examined.

  Louise opened the right-hand middle drawer enough to use as a footrest and pushed her chair back to a reclining position. She took a sip of soda and draped the People open across her thighs. She wasn’t going to answer the phone until her lunch hour was over, but the ringing was annoying, so she looked at the caller ID and picked it up. It was Ken, and he was very excited. He’d just spoken to the father of a runaway boy and even though the man wouldn’t talk about it, Ken knew he had also received a ransom note about their dog. Seemed to be a sore point between the man and his wife, and the man didn’t want to have anything to do with it. But he did tell Ken he could call back when she was home and discuss it with her.

  “I feel I’m on to something. Something bigger than a scheme against the old lady. Maybe more widespread.”

  “Nobody would ever believe it of you. You’re so…deceiving. A nice, kind, gentle man. A nice, kind, Jewish man. They don’t go in for cops-and-robbers things.”

  “You haven’t seen the rest of my wardrobe.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “You’ve only known me in mild weather. You don’t know…I have a rumpled-up dirty trench coat. Like Colombo’s.”

  “See, you’re in the wrong profession. You oughta become a detective.”

  “Wouldn’t work. Wanna hear the story of my life? Perry Mason had Della Street. Superman had Lois Lane. James Bond had…a whole menagerie. All the great investigators have beautiful secretaries or assistants. With my record, I’d come home to my beautiful, bachelor penthouse, with its high-tech electronic marvels and latest seduction equipment, and turn the light on over my circular, rotating mirrored bed with the built-in bar and movie screen in the footboard. I’d pull back the exotic silk sheets and find—ta-da—someone like Rosa Bassetti waiting for me in her flannel nightie.”

  Louise howled. “C’mon, it could be worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose what would be worse would be finding Rosa Bassetti without her flannel nightgown.”

  This time Ken laughed loudly. “She’s not really that bad, you know. In fact, I kinda think you’d like her. Maybe when I visit her this week, you’d like to meet her.”

  “I think I would. I wanna make sure you’re not pulling my leg, and she’s not some gorgeous blonde.”

  “With a name like Bassetti? A blonde Italian?”

  “Oh, right. Let me rephrase that. I meant some gorgeous lady…with blonde hair under her arms.” Louise couldn’t believe she’d said that. Blurted her idiotic response as if she we
re talking to a teenage girlfriend or trying to get laughs from her coworkers, as she often did. She tried too hard. The silence stung her. Oh, God, she was really a jerk.

  Then Ken guffawed and it was all right. “I’m going to give her a call today, because I want to see her before Labor Day. Matter of fact, I’d like to get the whole thing resolved before the weekend.”

  A whoosh of air rushed into Louise’s lungs, inflated them, pushed them against her ribs. “Ken…”

  “What? What’s the matter? Louise, are you there?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Tell me what? Hey, don’t do this to me. Tell me.”

  “I can’t go to Connecticut.”

  “What? I don’t believe it! Why in hell not? What happened?” Ken’s voice was more disappointed than angry.

  “I want to meet your parents, honest. It’s just that ever since you asked me, as much as I want to go, I’m sick—just sick—about having to put Honda somewhere for three days. I’m sorry. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help it. I love that dog, and I die, thinking of what it would do to him, being in a cage. I’d have to take him on Thursday night so we could leave on Friday, and I wouldn’t be able to pick him up until Tuesday because they’d be closed Monday night—and I’ve been nauseated with the worry and—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “What?” The last of her words had sucked the air out, leaving a hollowness in her chest.

  Ken’s voice was as soft and sweet as the look Louise tried to envision. “I know how you feel. I’m just surprised you didn’t decide before now.”

  “Actually I did. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Please don’t ever be afraid to tell me anything. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Louise answered almost shyly.

  “There’s no way I’m going to tell my mother, though. She’d kill me. And probably you too. She’s been planning this, you know, for a few weeks, and she’s really excited about meeting you. Tell you what. Let’s leave early Saturday morning, spend the day up there, have dinner with them, come back to the city, pick up the dog, drive out to my house, and stay there on Sunday. Then, Monday morning, we can drop Honda back at home and go back to my parents again. I think they’re planning a barbecue party on Labor Day. How’s that sound?”

  “Oh, Ken, it sounds fantastic. But what about all the driving? I’m sure it’s at least two hours each way. You won’t mind?”

  “Of course I’ll mind. But not as much as I’d mind not being with you.”

  Tears trickled down Louise’s cheek.

  “Hey, you there?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked with static.

  “You crying?”

  “Yes, of course I’m crying.”

  “But I thought you liked my idea.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are you crying, for Chrissake?”

  “That’s why. Because I like your idea. And because”—she blew her nose loudly into the receiver—“you’re so wonderful.”

  “Are all women as crazy as you?”

  “Who knows? I just know I’m crazy about you.” There.

  She’d said it.

  Chapter 118

  Jason taped a sign announcing, in bright orange letters, COPIES MADE—ONLY 11 CENTS to the inside of the F-Stop’s window. The tenant association needed a copier machine for all the literature they were sending out, but even though members were willing to chip in for the balance that the operating fund couldn’t pay in order to purchase one, there was no place to put it. Jason’s offer to keep it in the store, charge for copies, and turn the money over to SAVE had been met with suspicion and all sorts of questions about the legality of it. In the end, he decided it was a good business investment and tax deduction, so he leased one himself. His biggest customers in the week he’d had it had been people copying their Medicare statements; it would take a lot of doctor bills to pay for it.

  But Jason himself was making good use out of it. Now, he fed in the two-page meeting notice for the next tenants’ meeting, outlining the agenda and reminding everyone to bring their signed no-buy pledges with them. There were plenty of volunteers who would type and Xerox and put notices under doors. But not today and probably too busy tomorrow, but gladly next week. As Jason unconsciously nodded to the loud digestive noises the copier made in spitting out the papers, he thought about the enthusiasm that quickly had waned, the way it did with the general participation. No matter how interested everyone seemed to be in the future of their building and their individual apartments, attendance stank. They could rarely vote on anything, because they never had enough people present. Except for Miss Personality Pedersen, who could be relied on not to miss anything, especially a chance to start a good fight. The most opinionated people would shout their views, argue, and then not come back the next time to help make a decision about them. Jason found it all very frustrating.

  He took the copies out of the sorter and checked each set to make sure it was collated properly. Jason Ruderman, he thought, chairman of the 407 West End Avenue Tenants Association, secretary of the Support for AIDS Victims Everywhere organization. Jason Ruderman, whose high school yearbook might have said “least likely to do anything that matters” and whose many résumé versions omitted headings like “extracurricular” or “interests” or “affiliations.” Jason Ruderman, the lost cause, now has a cause. Two of them.

  Chapter 119

  The narrow counter on the side of the dispensary cabinet was a perfect place. It was hidden from the doorway so if people did suddenly appear, they wouldn’t see him; even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing there. There wasn’t much room for the pad, since the thin ledge was really only meant for filling pill bottles or sorting the little sample tubes of ointment the pharmaceutical companies sent. But it served his purpose.

  He meticulously printed the message, his left hand awkwardly outlining the block letters, his right toe simultaneously tracing the same crude shapes on the vinyl floor. It took a long time this way, sometimes several sessions to complete one set of instructions. But he couldn’t take a chance by using his right hand. He didn’t know if handwriting experts could trace printing. It would probably never come to that anyway. He wasn’t being real greedy. Sure, if he asked for 25,000 dollars or 40,000, people would call the police. But ten thousand bucks or fifteen wasn’t that much to them. It was easier to pay it than to take the chance. He never expected it to be so simple, but it was. So far. All he had to do was send the letter and then pick up the money. One, two. If he had known, he would have started off with 15,000 dollars, but he was too nervous in the beginning. The old lady and the gay paid the 10,000 thousand quickly.

  So he upped the next one. But that was the limit. No more than 15,000. He already had 35,000 dollars, spread out in six different banks. He promised himself he’d stop when he had 50,000. Just one more.

  He wondered what he’d do if somebody didn’t pay. If he’d really go through with what he threatened. Or if he’d just skip that person and go on to the next. He probably would do it, just to teach them a lesson. Like they deserved. In fact, he had a funny feeling last time, when he watched the Marcus bitch nervously going into the Laundromat. There was that queasy mixture of exhilaration and fear in his belly and, at the same time, a slight sense of disappointment. Because it was all too easy. He wondered if he missed the electrifying tension of violence about to be committed. Or missed having his rage explode in a vicious, bloody, disgusting act. Now that he thought about it, he knew that was it. As the fantasy of his fury filled his brain, his stomach turned in revulsion. And his sphincter muscle clenched in excitement.

  Chapter 120

  Rosa didn’t try to hide her surprise when she opened the door and saw Louise Sidway. Ken cleared his throat and introduced her. Rosa had expected Louise to be tall and thin, like Ken was, and pretty. But she wasn’t. She looked hard, especi
ally with her shoulders thrust forward in a permanent hunch. And the way her lower jaw was. Her red hair, squared around her face, made her look geometric, almost like a mechanical doll with a wind-up screw on her sloped back. Rosa decided all Louise needed was large hoop earrings and a little brighter lipstick, and she could stand on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue. Because even in Rosa’s day, when she was the busiest hat-check in town, she saw hookers who looked better than Louise did. She was disappointed; Ken Hollis could do better than that.

  She stood aside to let them in. From behind, Rosa realized that Louise was tall—she towered over Rosa anyway. But her hips, heavy and low, detracted from her height and pulled her down.

  Louise looked quietly around the room, as if waiting for a formal invitation to sit down. Then she noticed the hairless bundle standing on the cushion of the easy chair, her stump of a tail erect, waiting for someone to tell her what was going on, who was there, what the sudden flurry of movement meant. “Well, hel-lo,” she said, going right to Princess. When she realized the dog’s eyes were sightless with a milky film, Louise put the back of her hand against her snout so Princess could smell her. She dropped her pocketbook on the floor and, ignoring the unsightly lumps and fuzzy skin, gently lifted up Princess and sat down, cradling the dog like a baby. “Aren’t you a cutie?” she murmured. Princess couldn’t hear, but the vibrations of the tender tone, together with the gentle touch, told her she was in safe hands. She spread her front paws open in Louise’s lap so the stroking fingers could find her chest and, when they did, she moaned with pleasure.

  Well, beauty isn’t everything, Rosa thought, pushing her step stool in front of a kitchen cabinet and standing on its bottom rung. She reached for three wine goblets with the navy Chambord crest, a souvenir of the elegant restaurant where she started her hat-check career, before landing the great one at the Rainbow Room, where she worked for twenty years—before it went out of business and she did too, taking an early retirement. Had she known they were going to reopen a few years later, maybe she would have gone back. But by then, they wouldn’t have wanted someone her age. And it was all different. Different from the days you could walk around to the tables with your case of cigarettes or maybe bring a white phone to one of the booths for an important customer getting a call to the restaurant.