Connections

by Jacqueline Wein

  He rushed through his closing remarks, gave a reading assignment, and dawdled over packing up his papers, until the last summer-school student had gone. He stood up and pulled his trousers away from his body, where his shorts were digging into the swelling. He was relieved to get back to the privacy of his small office. He could not get Louise and what had happened between them out of his mind. Nor did he want to. The telephone interrupted his pleasure.

  “Hallo, Mr. Hollis?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Rosa. Rosa Bassetti. You remember? From Ms. Hargan’s apartment. The other day.”

  “Yes. Hello.”

  “You know, the lady with the ransom note for her dog, who was so upset, and you come and—”

  “I remember, I remember. How could I forget you, Miss Bassetti? What can I do for you?”

  “Not for me. For her. Eileen Hargan. I wanna know what you done so far to catch these people. Animals!”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Working how?”

  “Well, I’ve been talking to the local precinct. In fact, we’re trying to organize a senior citizens meeting to give advice on some of the swindles going on, to teach you how to protect yourselves.”

  “Swindle? This isn’t a swindle! Like getting one of those poor old ladies to give away her money. Or donate it. Or take out magazine prescriptions. This is a real crime, no? And Ms. Hargan—what if she have a heart attack over it? Then it would be murder. No, a meeting is not enough. No way. We have to get together and do something real—act. You know, Ken—okay I call you Ken?—it’s one thing to frighten somebody. A terrible thing, no question. But to threaten a person’s animal, a pet that, you know, to lots of us is our child, our little baby, well, that’s something different. We gotta stop them before they do it again. Or really do it to someone. You wanna talk? I got some ideas. I help you.”

  “Well, sure, Miss Bassetti.” Ken smiled into the mouthpiece. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  “Good. I be your private ‘I.’ I for Italian. Get it?”

  Chapter 63

  Chris Barrett got home first. He knew once he changed and cooled off, he wouldn’t feel like going out again, so he put his things down, turned on the air conditioner, and took Sabrina right out. When he came back, he stuffed his shirt into the duffel bag that was getting full from dirty laundry. Jason hadn’t been doing the wash regularly. Jason hadn’t been doing anything regularly lately, except getting on Chris’s nerves with his newfound causes. Although, Chris had to admit, Jason’s commitment added a new dimension to his personality, an enthusiasm and excitement, even an innocence. He realized, deep down, that it was frustration, maybe mixed with a little jealousy at Jason’s dedication to something other than Chris that was getting to him. It made Jason very irritating. And at the same time, very appealing.

  Chris changed into a pair of shorts and a fishnet shirt and walked into the living room. The apartment had cooled off. He raised the temperature control and went over to his den niche. He unpacked the briefcase he had left by the desk, put the galleys on the chair—tonight’s homework—and looked at the mail. He slid the insurance and cable TV bills under the rubber band binding the pile of household bills in the top drawer. They were going to clean up all their paperwork, together, over the long weekend coming up. And paint the kitchen. Chris was looking forward to the four days of working together, enjoying the satisfaction from their physical labor. He was sure Jason was too, especially since he planned to close the store on Saturday. Aside from the theater tickets they had for a Sunday matinee, they were just going to relax and play it by ear. Maybe go downtown to watch the fireworks. Maybe go to the Cloisters. A real mini-vacation in Manhattan.

  He threw away the junk mail, lit up a cigarette, and then made two stacks of envelopes—one for Jason and one for himself. Still dreaming of their holiday, with the cigarette hanging from his dry lips, he didn’t pay any attention to the crudely printed envelope, misspelled to “J. Roderman.”

  Chapter 64

  Rosa took Princess down to the river. Even though it was much too hot for such a long walk, she needed to go there. Both of them were slowed by arthritic legs and tired hearts. The sun was strong; it seemed to suck the color out of everything. There weren’t too many people on 84th between First and East End, the street she chose for her route. She always tried to walk down a different block so she could say hello to old friends in the neighborhood and enjoy a little change of scenery. She already planned to come home across 86th Street and hopefully catch palsied, cranky Mr. Untermeyer sitting on his stoop.

  Princess’s nostrils started contracting to catch the river smell. “Dolce, dolce, eh?” Rosa also wrinkled her nose, and they both perked up once they had sight of the trees, rippled in the haze, and the outline of Gracie Mansion peeking through them. A slight breeze from the water fluttered her hair, and Rosa lifted her head so it could touch her neck. Princess could not know what was special about their tree or that its twisted roots had stretched over the years, like gnarled old fingers, to cover the little grave beneath it, but she galloped toward it. Even though Rosa realized it was only because Princess knew that’s where they were headed, she felt it was an omen.

  It was a long time since she had buried Princess II here, but Rosa still felt very close to her. It was comforting to sit sideways on the end of the bench beneath the awning of leaves, her toes engraving a cross in the loose dirt behind it. It was a good place to think.

  She didn’t know exactly where to start in thinking about trying to solve the mystery. It could be anyone. Young, old. Man, woman. She had no ideas. No clues. What should she look for? Who? That young girl across from her, eating a sandwich, with the foil wrapper lying like a napkin in her lap, glinting in the sunlight. Her? Maybe she was sending signals, like they did to ships. Maybe she was telling someone that Rosa could be the next victim. “Ah, the heat, it makes me crazy, bambina,” she said aloud, while trying to memorize a description of the suspect—just in case. What she really needed was a camera. She slapped her thighs at the conclusion. “That’s what we get, Princess, a camera. A little tiny one like they give for spies. Maybe to hide in a lighter. Your mama, she might have to start smoking.”

  Chapter 65

  “We have to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Things.”

  “What things.”

  “Things going on between us.”

  “I didn’t know there was anything going on between us.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. That there really isn’t anything going on between us anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what it sounds like.” Jessica had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, yet here she was, tears hovering over her eyeballs. She blinked; the bubbles broke and leaked out from under her lids. One perfect drop shimmered on her cheek before she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “This is not what I had in mind when I said ‘talk.’”

  “What did you have in mind?” Lenny asked.

  “I thought we could sit down and have a real conversation. Talk about our feelings—our feelings about each other.”

  “I don’t have any feelings about it, one way or the other, so I guess there’s nothing for me to talk about.”

  “See, that’s the problem. We’re just going around in circles. Okay, you don’t think there’s anything to talk about; I do. So does that mean I’m not allowed to talk because you have nothing to say?”

  Lenny looked at her for a moment and then went back into the tiny entrance they pretended was a foyer.

  Jessica followed him, watching him methodically and deliberately smooth the sleeves of his seersucker jacket before hanging it in the closet. “That your answer? Huh?”

  He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and splashed water on his face.

  She waited in the doorway. “And you think we have nothing to talk about? A man who comes home and doesn’t even have
the courtesy to speak to his wife? A man who uses silence as a punishment? And you think I’m the one with a problem?” Jessica’s face reddened with anger; she turned away before he could notice.

  Kola slithered into the bedroom after her, sat in front of the bed, and put her head in Jessica’s lap. Unconsciously, Jessica stroked her, squeezed the fur on the back of her neck, and rubbed her finger over the hard ridge of Kola’s brow. Calmed, Jessica bent over until their noses touched. She looked deep into the eyes that were pleading with her to be happy.

  “Poor girl, don’t worry; nobody’s going to abandon you. What would we do without you? We almost found out the day you ran away, didn’t we? Thank God someone grabbed your leash. And thank God I had my cell phone number engraved on your collar. You really scared us, girl.”

  Jessica wrapped her arms around Kola. A long, pink tongue unfolded to lick the traces of salt from Jessica’s face.

  Chapter 66

  Trying to hurry through Penn Station on a Friday night in summer was like trying to do the breast stroke in quicksand. Rush hour started at noon and lasted all night. The throngs milled around, waiting for the boards to post the track numbers. When a departure was announced, a mass of people moved in the direction of the gate, poking their overnight bags and totes and animal carriers and packages into one another and keeping very close so nobody could break into their midst. The mercury in the station always seemed to climb to ninety-nine, no matter what the temperature was outside. The density of the heat, the condensation from body perspiration, the heaviness of the air, and the thickness of the humidity vaporized and hung like balloons suspended from the ceiling.

  More people arrived and departed at Penn Station on any given day than lived in Barbados and Iceland combined. More than the entire populations of Kansas City and Albuquerque and Seattle. More than the state of Wyoming.

  Friday night is the worst, Ken Hollis thought as he tried to get through the Amtrak waiting room to the Long Island Rail Road, but when it falls on the eve of July Fourth weekend—a four-day weekend for most people—forget it. Ken had made the mistake of thinking the station would be cooler than the steaming sidewalks and had entered in the middle of the block, instead of Seventh Avenue. He loosened his tie as he squeezed through the people. He opened the top two buttons of his shirt, which was translucent with sweat. He refolded the suit jacket hanging limply over his arm. The 4:26 to Montauk cleared out hundreds of weekenders destined for the Hamptons, but the hole their departure left filled up instantly.

  Penn Station had a thousand “movements” a day. Although the official terminology referred to trains, not bowels, it seemed to Ken that their rumblings on the loops and curls of track beneath the city could be likened to a huge monster’s digestive tract, to swallowing and then eliminating the population. The LIRR alone scheduled 735 commuter trains a day, and all it took was one ten-minute delay or one cancellation to start a rash of bad jokes on the Internet and a series of protests in the newspaper.

  Ken went into one of the crowded bar joints, hoping for a cold beer, but he couldn’t get near enough to the bar to order one. He left and walked as close to the center of the waiting room as he could, so he’d have an equal chance of making it to a track on either side. He was anxious for tomorrow morning. He’d leave home early—there shouldn’t be anybody going into the city—pick her up at nine. He’d probably run into heavy traffic going back out, but it just would have been too hectic to try it tonight. Especially with the dog. He knew she wouldn’t want to leave him with anybody or board him and probably would have turned Ken down if he hadn’t invited Honda. But the truth was, he was just as excited about showing Honda a good time and letting him run around as he was about having Louise there.

  He wanted to make love to her again. Slowly this time. Caringly. In his bed. After spending the day with her. He surprised himself, wanting her there in his house. Thinking of her now, as sluggish as he felt, with the sweat dripping inside his clothes, there was a throbbing in his groin. He moved his jacket in front of him. The garbled voice announcing the 4:37 to Bethpage jolted him out of his reverie. As he was carried along to Track 7 by the stampeding herd, he had a smile on his face.

  Chapter 67

  Fibber McGee lay down on the sidewalk and refused to budge. His head was pillowed on his front paws straight in front of him, and if it weren’t for his stump of a tail wobbling behind him, he would have appeared dead or overcome with heat prostration. Eileen tried to pull him to a standing position, but he stubbornly hugged the concrete. She peered into the distance to see the object of his attention. Princess was prancing toward them at the end of her leash, with Rosa Bassetti panting for breath behind her. As they neared, Mr. McGee stood, gracefully paralyzed in anticipation. They faced each other on hind legs. Then, almost bowing an invitation to her, he danced around her. Princess preened at his courting.

  Rosa’s bones groaned as she bent to pet him. He ignored her. “So, you see your boyfriend, bambina. He make your day? Wouldn’t it be nice,” she continued to Eileen, “if we—I mean, people—could get so happy from so little. So…how you comin’ along?”

  “Fine, I’m fine now. Really. Even my nephew says that since I paid them, they won’t be back. Won’t bother me anymore.”

  “We hope. Did you think anymore about if it could be anyone you know?”

  “No. How could I ever figure out who it could be? Fibber, now you stop that, you hear?” She tugged him away from Princess’s rear. “You all ready for the noise this weekend?”

  “Nah. I give my Princess some aspirin at night. Like tranquilizers they are. They start setting off firecrackers, the poor thing she goes crazy from the noise. They ought to have a law against them.”

  “They do, you know. But nobody pays attention. So what are you doing to celebrate?”

  “Me? Just like any other day to me. Same as New Year’s Eve. Or my birthday. You?”

  “Oh, I’m not doing anything. My nephew invited me for the whole weekend. I could go for a week, if I wanted. Or forever. But…well, I don’t like to go too far. I like staying in my own house. Sleeping in my own bed. Don’t we, Mr. McGee?”

  “Me, too. Hey, why you don’t come? I open a nice bottle of Chianti. We have a little chicken. I even take out my flag—from when I become a citizen—and we drink to America. To independence. Come on, say yes.” Rosa was buoyant at the idea of an impromptu party. “Do it for him.” She nodded toward the dog. “He deserves a holiday too. I make something special, some stew, for our little sweethearts.”

  “Well, I don’t know…”

  “Sure you know. We have a good time. I go shopping now. You come—when? Five, five-thirty?”

  “Okay,” Eileen said with a laugh. It might be fun for a change. She hadn’t been out of the house for dinner in ages. “I’ll bring dessert.”

  “Good, good, I get busy now.” As Rosa hurried down the street, she warned her dog under her breath, “You don’t get too excited now. You too old to be Princess McGee.