Connections

by Jacqueline Wein

  She poured burgundy from the gallon bottle stored in the space between the refrigerator and sink and carefully carried two glasses into the living room. When she came back with the third, she dragged a wooden kitchen chair with her other hand and parked it opposite Louise. Ken was to Louise’s side, comfortable on the couch, holding his drink on the arm, the stem of his glass toying with the spot where the nap of velvet, stringy with age, showed through the worn slipcover.

  “That you real color?” Rosa asked bluntly, pointing to Louise’s hair as she sat down.

  “Of course. Would anyone pay for a color like this?” Louise laughed, patting her hair.

  When she laugh, Rosa thought, her whole face, it lights up. Then, she look pretty. Well, almost pretty. She nodded her approval to Ken.

  He winked at Louise as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you she was a case?” Then he asked out loud, “So, any more news?”

  “Nah. Just some ideas. You?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I did find out something. There was another one.”

  “No!” Rosa inched her buttocks forward. The back of her dress remained stuck to the chair, the front riding up over her thighs. From where Louise sat, she could see the brown band of Rosa’s stocking stretched into the clasp of an old-fashioned garter. It reminded her of her grandmother. “Who? Just tell me—they hurt the dog?”

  “No. This one would be a hard one to hurt. He’s huge.”

  “She,” Louise interrupted.

  “’Scuse me—she. Whatever it is, it’s big. And ferocious.”

  Louise looked directly at Rosa. “You ever notice how people who aren’t dog people get their sexes mixed up?”

  “Yes,” Rosa said, nodding knowingly. “Anyone who calls my little girl a boy has to answer to me! It’s an insult!”

  “Ah, who could mistake this dainty little thing for a boy?” Louise tickled Princess’s belly. “On the other hand, my big lug of a male is so gentle and sweet, if you didn’t know, you’d think he was a female. Only you’d better not say that to him!”

  “What kind he is?” Rosa asked.

  “Macho. Mucho macho.” Louise’s laugh was infectious, and Rosa joined her. “He’s your basic mutt. But he’s mostly Lab. Black Labrador, and he has this silver triangle right here.” Louise drew one on her forehead with her finger. “He’s gorgeous. Isn’t he gorgeous, Ken?”

  “It doesn’t seem like my opinion would count for much around here, all of a sudden being a non-dog person, but yes, he is gorgeous.”

  Louise ignored him to continue on her favorite subject. “And really very masculine. If anybody ever called him a girl, he’d know it, believe me, and would probably rip that person apart. Like he would anybody who didn’t treat me right. Are you listening over there?” she asked Ken with a big smile.

  “He must love you a lot,” Rosa commented.

  “I do.” Ken said it without thinking, and Louise, stunned, grinned and looked down.

  “We talkin’ about the dog.” Rosa slapped her thigh jovially but then impulsively went over and held Ken’s face in both her hands. “My children, my children, you make-a nice couple.” She left him and stood in front of Louise, forcing her to lift her head to look at her. When she did, the blush spread from her neck to her cheeks, glowing on her fair skin. Rosa bent over and gave Louise an awkward half-hug, her large bosom brushing Louise’s chin. “Now, that’s settled,” she said authoritatively, her blessing obviously final. “We have a toast to you.” She saluted them with her wine. “Okay, now, back to business. But first, we fill up the glasses.” She retrieved the jug and brought it into the living room. As she poured, she asked, “What happen? With this new one?”

  “Marcus family,” Ken answered. “Couple in their mid-thirties, give or take a few years. They have an eleven-year-old son who used to be—I don’t know, not exactly autistic but had some development problems. They adopted a dog from the ASPCA. She’s big.” He turned to Louise, saying, “I saw her picture; you’d love her. She and the boy are very attached. Since they got her, kid has done a 100 percent turnaround. Anyway, they got a note a few weeks ago. Almost the same as the others.” Ken took a wad of papers out of his breast pocket and sifted through them. “The woman made the payoff. Husband didn’t want to give in, didn’t want to have anything to do with it. The mother was afraid to risk anything happening to the dog and the son then regressing. Here—this is a copy of the letter she got.” He handed it to Rosa. “But listen to the kicker—the boy ran away from home with the dog.”

  “What? You mean because he’s afraid they kidnap the dog?” Rosa asked.

  “No, the mother, Mrs. Marcus, doesn’t think he even knew about the note or the threat. Seems she and her husband are having some marital problems, and she thinks the kid might’ve been unhappy about that. Anyway, he’s only eleven; he can’t have gone too far. Trouble is, in this city, you don’t have to go too far to lose yourself. Anyway, they were evidently hiding out in Central Park, sticking close to a group of homeless men. Maybe the kid felt safer with a bunch of people around. One of them hated the dog and picked on the kid. One night, who knows what this guy did—nobody knows—but the dog went for him. Bit him badly. So bad he was taken to the hospital and had enough stitches in his neck to look like his head was zippered on. But before they could do anything more, the guy ran away.”

  “What guy?” Rosa looked confused.

  “The guy in the hospital. The victim. He probably had his own reasons for not wanting to be found or identified. Maybe he’s an escaped convict or something or owes five years’ alimony. Whatever reason he has for becoming homeless is likely the same reason he doesn’t want to talk to the police. And he knows the dog bite will be reported, and the police will come. That’s how I found out, by the way. There was a missing-person file on the boy, and the homeless man described the kid at the hospital. Some very smart cop linked them up.”

  “So what happens then?” Rosa leaned forward, all ears.

  “Nothing. Looks like the kid is still hiding, probably more afraid for his dog than he was before. Of course, the guy isn’t going to be around to press charges, but the kid doesn’t know that. The Marcuses are frantic about their son. At this point, they certainly don’t want to pursue the blackmailer. The police were worried about the guy—about rabies, about the guy getting it, foaming at the mouth and ranting and raving through the streets, maybe committing some heinous crimes. But now that they’ve located the Marcuses, who think it was their dog, at least the cops are pretty sure it wasn’t a stray. In fact, the mother just went to their vet to get a statement that the dog has had all its shots.” Ken shuffled through the papers still in his hand. “Here’s a copy of that.”

  As he passed it over, the letterhead caught Rosa’s eye and she shouted excitedly, “Hey, that’sa my doctor too.”

  “Really?” Ken tilted his head. “That’s a coincidence.”

  “Manhattan Vet’anry Associates,” Rosa announced and skipped right to the bottom. “See, it’s signed by him—Dr. Pomalee.”

  Louise jumped up. “Dr. Pomalee! I don’t believe it. That’s my dog’s doctor. Let me see that.” She took the letter from Rosa, scanned it, and handed it back. “Why do you go to 74th Street from here?”

  “He used to be closer, but it’s like anything else. I like him, he knows me, and he treats my dog good.”

  “That’s why I go to him,” Louise agreed. “He’s actually not very pleasant to me, but he’s wonderful to my dog.”

  Ken stood up to retrieve his papers. “Well, ladies, it’s very nice that you two have something in common—” He stopped short, and all three of them simultaneously opened their mouths in amazement.

  Louise was the first to recover. “Do you suppose…?” Rosa slapped her forehead. “How stupid we don’t think of it.”

  Ken nodded. “The most simple, the most obvious. But wait—you think that guy…what’s his name? Justin Ruderman?”

  “Jason,” Rosa corrected.


  “Right, Jason Ruderman. He’s all the way over on the West Side. You don’t think…”

  Rosa was already at her desk, pulling out drawers. She turned a manila envelope over, emptying it, and photographs and bits of papers covered the surface of the drop-leaf. She found the card right away. “Here—the F’n Stop. You call. I no speak too good English when I’m nervous.”

  Chapter 121

  Laurie couldn’t sleep. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow, dislodging Felix, who wheezed his anger at her and then pompously strutted out of the bedroom, like a tap dancer strutting off stage. She turned onto her back, clutching the pillow over her. But she couldn’t block out the frenzy of eyes spinning in her brain, circling, darting. Pleading for help. Calling Laurie Jensen to rescue them.

  Eyes of dogs hanging upside down by their paws in Philippine meat markets; eyes of chimpanzees visible between electrodes dangling from their heads; eyes of mother seals watching their babies skinned alive, tears melting into their fur; eyes of rabbits taped open and coated with detergent; eyes of wolves chewing their legs off in traps; eyes of dolphins still strangling as steel nets sliced their necks. Eyes of animals being gassed, trapped, burned, electrocuted.

  Her own eyes could not shut them out. They haunted her—with the agony of their torture, with the gruesome slowness of their dying, with their aloneness and pain. She could see nothing else except millions of eyes and their grisly suffering. They blinded her.

  Her belly churned bile to her throat. She gagged on its sourness and ran to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet.

  She slapped cold water on her cheeks and then braced herself on the edge of the sink. Her arms wobbled.

  She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of red wine, which she brought into the living room with her. She sat on the couch, waiting for her body to stop shaking, and then sipped her drink in the dark. A set of iridescent amber disks beamed on both sides of the room, an occasional flicker reminding her that she was being watched. “Over here, guys, c’mere.” She patted the couch, but they didn’t come. No matter how enchanting they could be, they still weren’t dogs. “You’re wondering what I’m doing, huh? Well, so am I. What am I doing here?” she asked out loud. “What am I doing with my life?”

  Laurie rubbed the light condensation on her glass and wondered if she was becoming an alcoholic. It seemed that she was doing this a lot lately—coming home, tired, depressed, and having one or two drinks to relax her. It was only wine, but she read somewhere that it was just as bad as liquor. It’s not like she had to have it. Except, even when she promised herself on the subway or walking to her apartment that she would not have a drink tonight, she came in and had one anyway. More like three. Sometimes she just wanted to have one to help her calm down. Like now. A few minutes ago, she was ready to puke her guts out, and now she felt fine.

  “Hey, wanna cuddle?” A current of air announced a cat streaking by. “Even you don’t want me anymore. Thanks, loads.” Laurie’s voice was slightly slurred. Maybe nobody wants me, she thought, because I’m not very worth wanting. She had to do something because she couldn’t go on like this. She was almost finished with her project, but then what? Anyway, what good would it do anyone—especially the animals—when it was done? Maybe the whole thing was for nothing. It’s not like she had something better to do. But she should. That was her problem. Wasting her time on a cause that she couldn’t help, wasting her life on a man she couldn’t have.

  Laurie refilled her glass, curled her legs under her, and tried to drown her despair. The wine was warm and thick as syrup as it slid down her throat. For a moment, she dreamed of her mother’s embrace, and she sniveled loudly.

  She swiped her finger across her nose as Felix jumped into her lap, followed by Oscar, who gently touched her face with a paw before curling up against her leg. They both lifted their heads and glared as Megabyte tentatively climbed onto the couch and got comfortable in the corner. Then they circled their faces into their butts in secure mode, which Laurie called sleeping inside out. Three cats on the couch. An omen, for sure.

  Chapter 122

  Fibber McGee lifted his leg against the giant concrete banister and dribbled on the bottom step.

  “Aw, Miss Hargan, look what he done.” Wally Schilder’s loud whine came from two doors away, where he was hosing the sidewalk.

  Eileen looked down and saw the urine spots darkening the stone. She tugged the leash, scolding her dog with a “naughty, naughty,” which Wally knew was half-hearted for his sake. So did Fibber. “Sorry,” she called back to him. “Do it quick so it won’t stain.” She watched him drag the hose and stepped back to the curb so she wouldn’t get sprinkled.

  “’T’s okay. Whatcha doin’ out here so early?”

  “I haven’t been sleeping. So I thought I’d catch Miss Bassetti; she goes out early.” Eileen would never have referred to her as Rosa to someone like Wally Schilder. A worker. Just like she never referred to another teacher by her first name to a student or even a parent. It wouldn’t be proper. “And how are you, Wally? When are you leaving for vacation?”

  “I’m fine. You know me, Ms. Hargan. Comes Labor Day, I take off for my month. This is my last day.”

  “I didn’t realize. Where are you going this year?”

  “Europe. Promised the wife I’d take her to Germany. She still has people there. Some first cousins, an uncle. So, as long as we’re there, we’re doing the grand tour. London, Paris, Rome. Then the Rhineland.”

  “That’s wonderful, Wally. When do you leave?”

  “Today at four o’clock. Soon as my day’s over. Going to spend the weekend with the grandchildren in New Jersey first. Then Monday, we’ll get ready and leave on Tuesday. Didn’t want to travel on Labor Day anyway.”

  “Well, good for you. I hope you have a good time.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Hargan. I’m sure we will.” As he turned to talk to her, the hand holding the hose followed, and Eileen did a two-step out of its reach. “G’won, I’m not going to get you.” Wally released his thumb, controlling the water, and went back to where he’d been working. “You take care.”

  “Thank you. You too. And have a good time.” Think of that, Eileen said to herself. A part-time superintendent is off to Europe, and I’ve never been. She laughed at her own silliness. “How do you like that, Mr. McGee?” The dog cocked his head in her direction, but she didn’t elaborate. It’s not like she couldn’t afford to go. If she wanted. She just never wanted. She preferred knowing the money was safe in the bank, rather than using it for something as frivolous as a trip. But more and more lately, it had seemed increasingly frivolous not to spend it. Look how easy she’d withdrawn the 10,000 dollars.

  Only that was different. That was almost a necessity. But as her friend said, “If you can find it for something like that, you can find it for pleasure.”

  It wasn’t too late. She wouldn’t go to Europe—not that far—but maybe someplace closer. The Caribbean. Florida. Maybe she’d even invite Rosa to go with her. If she had a companion, it would be easier. Not that she hadn’t had her choice of companions before, but maybe there just hadn’t been anybody with whom she would consider spending several weeks traveling. It seemed like a shame that Eileen would die without having been farther than Los Angeles—and that had been in 1972. Why should Danny and his wife inherit the money? Charlene was really nothing to her and would probably get a three-week, expenses-paid trip to the other side of the world when Eileen died. The hell she will! Eileen thought. She pulled Fibber McGee closer to her. “Over my dead body,” she said out loud to him.

  “Over you dead body what?”

  Even though she knew it wasn’t Fibber McGee answering her, the timing was so startling that she jumped. “Rosa, you scared me.”

  “I see. You gotta be paying attention more. I tol’ you. Anybody could come behind you and grab the leash.” Rosa demonstrated by pulling it away from Eileen. Then she bent over to say a personal greeting to Fibbe
r McGee. “Now, what you tellin’ him?”

  “Well, get this, Rosa Bassetti. I was thinking of taking a real vacation. And taking you with me.”

  “G’won.”

  “Yes. What would you say to going to Paris? Or London? Or both?” It came out before she had a chance to think. What had happened to the Caribbean or Florida?

  “I’da say…ho-ly shit.”

  “Rosa!”

  “But I say in Italian so you wouldn’ta be upset.”

  Eileen laughed. “Of course, we can’t go until”—she moved her gaze downward to Fibber and Princess, prancing around each other—“until they’re gone.” Her pointed look at Rosa warned her not to repeat the words out loud, not to scare the two dogs.

  “Of course. And I hope they both be around for a long, long time. But how wonderful to look forward. You really wanna take me?”

  “Better you than that Charlene.” As soon as Eileen said it, she knew she would do it. If she lived that long. And she damn well intended to.